A Killer in Time

by Jim Laughter

  “Do you know who the killer is, George?” Keller asked. “I mean, really know?”

  “Yes, LK,” he answered. “I really do.”

  “Then who the hell is it, kid?” Morris asked.

  Benjamin looked into Morris’ eyes. He didn’t blink and he didn’t hesitate. He was about to say something so incredibly impossible that he couldn’t believe it himself.

  “It’s Jack the Ripper, sir. It’s Jack the Ripper.”

  Chapter Seven

  Smoke spilled off the wheels of Air Force One landing at George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Houston, Texas. The President was on the first stop of a six-city campaign tour to bolster support for the democrat senate elections scheduled for November 4th.

  Texas wasn’t going to be an easy state for the party. They were trying to unseat a republican incumbent in a state where their governor had also been a candidate for the GOP nomination in 2012. The polls indicated the party might get forty percent of the popular vote—maybe a little less since Texas is mostly republican. But with such a large Hispanic and black population, they had to try. If nothing else, they might retain the support of the ignorant uninformed, the same block of votes that had turned the presidential election in 2008 and paved the way for the democrat candidate in 2016.

  The doctor sat estranged from the other passengers on Air Force One. He’d always insisted on his own private cubical away from the mundane ramblings of the White House press corps.

  He hated the prying eyes of the U.S. Secret Service detail that accompanied the President on these little jaunts around the country; their constant whispers and stares. The President’s chief-of-staff had ordered the agents not to molest his carry-on or stored baggage, and to leave him alone during the flight; that he was a private person who did not desire anyone’s attention or friendship.

  He knew the agents all considered him an elitist snob but he didn’t give a shit what they thought. Besides, he knew about their indiscretions during their off-duty time.

  Hypocrites, the whole damn bunch of them. All formal and sanctimonious on the outside with their suits and ties, communications devices in their ears—concealed weapons under their jackets.

  But they weren’t fooling him. He’d seen them after hours with their whores and party girls laughing it up in their block of rooms, running around like a bunch of drunken half naked school boys on spring break. Sluts and street trash infecting the sacred confines of the nation’s highest officer. It made his blood boil to think of the scandal this behavior could bring to the administration if word ever got out.

  Air Force One taxied to a secure hanger away from the hustle and bustle of the regular airport traffic. Two Boeing C-17 Globemaster III military transport aircraft carrying the majority of the presidential motorcade and other secure vehicles had landed an hour ahead of the President and was already waiting for them to arrive. It would take about fifteen minutes for the press corps and security staff to unload all of their gear into the dozen vehicles. The President, his family, members of the press, security, White House officials, and VIP guests would then travel across town to a forty-thousand dollar a plate fundraising event and photo opportunity.

  I’m not eating that Texas swill, he thought. Barbecue and beans. Food for rednecks and cowboy trash.

  The presidential motorcade is made up of two parts, the first being the secure package. In the event of an emergency, the secure package separates from the rest of the group. It includes two limousines heavily guarded by local law enforcement officers and Secret Service agents, with all cars driven by professional drivers.

  The second part consists of vans that transport White House staff members and selected members of the press. In the rear is the Mobile Command and Control Vehicle, a heavily fortified Chevrolet Suburban which provides the primary communications path via satellite, allowing bi-directional voice, data and streaming video. Also near the back of the motorcade is an ambulance and additional police vehicles.

  The President and his family descended the motorized ladder that had been rolled out to Air Force One. He saluted the military detachment at the foot of the stairs and waved to the crowd, shaking hands with dignitaries and other airport personnel that had gathered to greet him. His smile was infectious and his greeting looked sincere. The doctor watched the leader of the free world glad-hand them as if nothing was wrong.

  How can he be unaware of the debauchery on his own security detail? Surely, he can’t be that blinded by political ambition.

  The doctor thought about his personal vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car identical to the one he’d parked at the White House hours earlier; a car that stayed with the other permanent motorcade vehicles stored in a hanger at Andrews Air Force Base.

  With exception to the security detail that loaded and unloaded the transport, he was the only person allowed to drive this car. He wouldn’t drive it in the motorcade. His place was in the presidential ambulance where he always had immediate access to the President should anything unforeseen happen to him. But he knew his car would be waiting for him at the hotel tonight when the presidential party settled in. It also assured him that his most important surgical equipment stayed secure and readily accessible, equipment he’d use later in the evening as time and opportunity allowed.

  Chapter Eight

  Morris and Keller hadn’t spoken since Benjamin’s incredible announcement that Jack the Ripper was the person killing prostitutes around the country. They’d grown accustomed to his off-the-wall conclusions about cases regardless how ridiculous they sounded.

  It didn’t matter that during their first case as a team, he’d concluded that one of their victims had been killed in the same manner as the Apostle Thomas based on calamine lotion smeared on the victim’s body. And it didn’t matter that he carried a New Testament Bible in his jacket pocket right next to his weapon, a contrast that Morris found incredible just to think about.

  But this assumption was just plain weird. How the hell had the kid come up with this ridiculous theory—a killer from England that has been dead for over a hundred years killing hookers in the United States?

  “Jack the Ripper?” Morris said. “Jack the Ripper is killing these women?”

  Benjamin nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “You’re telling me that Jack the Ripper, a serial killer that lived in London, England over a century ago is alive here in the United friggin' States and he’s killin' women like he did in London over a hundred friggin' years ago! Is that what you’re tellin' me?”

  Again, George nodded his head. He still didn’t speak. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to explain how he’d come to his conclusion while Morris was in one of his moods.

  “Can you believe this kid?” Morris asked Keller. “Jack the friggin' Ripper here in Washington DC? Of all the dumb-ass crap I’ve ever heard.”

  Morris pointed his right index finger at George all the while thinking it should be his gun. “You’re out of your friggin' mind, you know that boy?”

  George nodded. Still didn’t speak.

  “You’ve really crossed the line on this one,” Morris continued. “Jack the Ripper killin' people in Washington DC.”

  Morris pointed again at Benjamin who sat quietly at his desk, neither agreeing with nor denying Morris’ accusation that he’d lost his mind.

  “First this kid runs my ass all over the country chasin' that damn crazy preacher, and now he tells me we’re fixin' to chase a killer that’s been dead for over a century?”

  Although his statement sounded like a question, it wasn’t. He wasn’t about to listen to any crazy-ass theory about a dead killer resurrecting from the dead like some damn zombie. It just wasn’t going to happen.

  “He didn’t say…”

  “Don’t start with me, Keller,” Morris said. “Look at him. Just look at him.”

  Keller glanced down at Benjamin who still sat quiet in his chair. He hadn’t spoken since his incredible announcement but Keller could tell something was stirring in his
mind. She’d learned to trust George’s instincts, so when he made a statement, regardless how ridiculous it sounded, she knew to be patient until he could explain. Morris didn’t know how to hold back.

  “I can see it in his eyes. This kid’s cookin' up somethin' plumb ridiculous,” Morris said. “You can bet your good boots on that.”

  “George?” Keller said. “Jack the Ripper, George?”

  She sat down in a chair near George’s desk and waited for his reply. She could tell by his demeanor that he was conflicted in his conclusion and was hesitant to continue.

  “That’s quite a stretch, George,” Keller continued. “Even for Washington.”

  Her stab at humor was lost on the young agent.

  “Yes ma’am,” Benjamin said. “I know.”

  “Then how…”

  Benjamin lifted the list of names back out Keller’s hand and tapped the second name on the list—Anne Chapman.

  “So?”

  “Look at the names on the list.”

  Keller read down through the list. “Mary Ann Nichols, Anne Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows, Mary Kelly.”

  “Anne Chapman,” Benjamin said.

  “So?” Morris said. “Kid, you better start makin' some sense here pretty damn quick.”

  “Anne Chapman,” Benjamin repeated. “Anita Chapman.”

  “Now, George,” Keller said. “You can’t…”

  “Do you remember the name of the prostitute found murdered in New Orleans a few weeks ago, LK?”

  “The one in the alley?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Keller opened the case file of a murdered woman they’d attributed to this killer. She turned the page so Morris could see it. He shrugged his shoulders to say he didn’t see any connection.

  “Marilyn Nichols,” Keller said.

  Again, Benjamin tapped the list of names he’d printed. “Look at the first name.”

  Keller and Morris read the list of names again. “Mary Ann Nichols.”

  Morris shrugged his shoulders again. “What the hell?”

  Keller read the details of Marilyn Nichols’ death and compared it to that of Mary Ann Nichols in London, England on August 21, 1888. Both of the women’s throats had been slashed. Both of them were five feet tall, and both had dark complexions with brown hair and brown eyes.

  “Mary Ann Nichols?” Keller asked. “You think Mary Ann Nichols and Marilyn Nichols were killed by Jack the Ripper?”

  George nodded again, not wanting to commit himself to saying something the senior agents would take the wrong way. He knew the actual Jack the Ripper could not be alive and active today, but he also knew he was right. He knew beyond any doubt that his instinct about this case was correct. He just didn’t know how he was going to convince Keller and Morris that he hadn’t lost his mind.

  Keller laid her hand on Benjamin’s arm, a gentle, motherly touch. She didn’t want to patronize the young agent, but neither was she willing to accept at face value the wild assumption that Jack the Ripper was committing these murders.

  “George, you and I both know that isn’t possible, don’t we?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you’re saying it’s a copycat killer, not the actual Jack the Ripper, right?”

  Benjamin rubbed his eyes and tried to wipe away the headache that had begun to form. He pushed his chair away from his desk and swiveled so he could face both of the senior agents.

  “We need Grundy Cooper.”

  “Holy shit!” Morris said, running his right hand up over his bald head as if to wipe away sweat that really wasn’t there.

  “Cooper!” he exclaimed. “That red-headed peckerwood from Nashville?”

  This is only going to get worse, Keller thought.

  Benjamin nodded. “Yes sir. If you want to catch this guy, Cooper’s your man.”

  “Dear God in heaven,” Morris said. “That clumsy knot head couldn’t find his ass with both hands. How the hell is he gonna help us with this case?”

  “I know you wouldn’t expect it sir, but Grundy Cooper knows everything there is to know about Jack the Ripper.”

  “George,” Keller said, “are you sure?”

  She knew she wasn’t sure. Cooper had been some help on the Apostle Murders case but he wasn’t anything special.

  What will Division Chief Lewellen Truck say when we tell him we need to move an agent, another rookie, from Nashville, Tennessee to Washington DC to help solve this case?

  “Yes LK, I’m sure,” he answered. “Cooper has a double Master’s Degree in criminology and criminal psychology, and he did this academy thesis on Jack the Ripper. If anyone can figure this out, it’s him.”

  Chapter Nine

  FBI agent Grundy Cooper, the most junior agent in the Nashville, Tennessee field office knocked on the door of bureau chief Olin Wills. Cooper stood a gangly six foot six inches tall. He had large hands and feet, which caused him to be clumsier than he liked, especially in light of the other professional agents in the Nashville office. His closely cropped bright red hair and pale skin didn’t help dissuade the constant barrage of ribbing the other agents enjoyed dishing out to him.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Wills looked up from the report he’d been reading concerning a car theft ring transporting stolen vehicles across state lines. The tall red-headed agent standing in his doorway was just one of several new agents that had passed through the Nashville office over the last few years. He wasn’t anything special. Yet here he stood on the brink of nabbing an assignment that senior agents dreamed of their whole careers. So why was this rookie nobody suddenly being elevated to Washington DC, sacred ground for every agent in the bureau?

  “Sit down, Cooper.”

  What the hell have I done now? Cooper thought. Somebody complain about the coffee again? Did I file some meaningless report in the wrong cabinet? Does he need me to pick up some hotshot at the airport?

  Cooper sat down in a chair directly in front of the bureau chief’s desk, waiting for Wills to tell him the bad news. The chair sat low which caused Cooper’s knees to protrude up high, giving him the appearance of a troublesome schoolboy awaiting discipline in the principal’s office, which is exactly how he felt at this moment.

  He’d only been with the bureau for three years but had been around the FBI his whole life. His father had been bureau chief in Sacramento, California for many years so he wasn’t a stranger to bureau politics.

  Cooper’s only excitement was when he’d gotten dragged into helping his old academy classmate, George Benjamin and a couple of senior agents track down a serial killer just before Thanksgiving 2011. Other than that, his duties consisted of mundane office chores and menial assignments around town.

  It wasn’t how he’d envisioned FBI agents spending their day. Instead, he saw himself investigating cases of national importance, crushing counterfeit rings, infiltrating terrorist cells, and saving the day before some nut-job could set off a bomb in front of the White House. Instead, here he sat across from his bureau chief, positive he was fixing to get his ass reprimanded for some rookie mistake he wasn’t even aware he’d made.

  “You’re moving up in the world, Cooper,” Wills said without looking away from his report.

  “Sir?”

  Wills pushed a sheet of paper across his desk to Cooper. “You’re going on assignment.”

  “Assignment, sir? Where?”

  “Look at the damn order, Cooper!”

  Cooper reached for the paper. His eyes ran down the page until he came to a line that said—Temporary Duty Assignment effective immediately. Report to Special Agent Duncan Morris, Washington D.C.

  “Sir?” Cooper said. “What’s this all about?”

  Wills closed his report and leaned back in his chair, looking the young agent up and down. “I don’t have one damn clue what it’s about, Cooper.”

  “But…”

  “All I know is you’ve been reassigned by special request to a task force i
n DC.”

  Cooper looked at the order again. He recognized the name. Duncan Morris. Shit! What the hell does that crazy son of a bitch want with me?

  “You didn’t know anything about this?” Wills asked.

  “No sir.”

  “You weren’t called by anyone at the DC office and just didn’t tell me?”

  “No sir,” Cooper answered. “This is the first time I’ve heard about it.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Cooper.”

  “I… I swear, sir,” Cooper stammered.

  Satisfied that Cooper was as surprised by the transfer order as he was, Wills slid another sheet of paper across his desk.

  “This is a voucher for an airline ticket to DC.” Cooper read through the voucher.

  Coach, of course.

  “Am I leaving today, sir?”

  “The order says immediately, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then that means today.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s all, Cooper.”

  “Sir?”

  “Get your ass home and pack your shit, Cooper,” Wills said. “Then book your flight to DC and get the hell out of my town.”

  “Yes sir,” Cooper answered. He folded both sheets of paper and stood to leave, hesitating for only a moment in case the chief had any further instructions for him. Wills reopened the report he’d been studying when Cooper first knocked on his door. He didn’t look up from his report. He didn’t say goodbye.

  Cooper jammed the two folded sheets of paper into the inside pocket of his jacket. He exited the chief’s office, wondering what kind of special task force he’d been selected for and why.

  Chapter Ten

  The doctor watched from the wing of the ballroom while the President and his wife wined and dined the upper crust of Texas politics—movers and shakers that influenced the mindset of the Texas electorate. State officials and city leaders posed for photo opportunities with the President, each one trying to angle his way into the inner sanctum of national politics. Handshakes and pats on the back, smiles that masked the thoughts of politicians that would rather be anywhere else. But with photo opportunity tickets costing $10,000 for one person and $15,000 for two, plus the cost of dinner, they were willing to stand in line and look happy to be there.