by Jim Laughter
Secret service agents hovered in the background. They too wished the night was over so they could be about their pleasures; pleasures that awaited their call girls to slip in the back door of the hotel and use the servant’s elevators to the security floor. The doctor watched them scan the room full of stuffed shirts and wannabe policy makers as if any of them posed a threat to the President. He was sure they didn’t expect anything to happen as much as he knew they relished being in the presence of almost unlimited power.
The doctor loathed the secret service. They hadn’t prevented either of the Kennedy assassinations, and may very well have been involved in them. He often wondered how Bobby Kennedy had been shot in the back of his head when the shooter was in front of him. Reagan had been shot exiting the Washington Hilton even though he was surrounded by a whole squad of secret service agents.
There were just too many secrets stalking the corridors of power, and the secret service always seemed to be somewhere close when tragedy struck.
And now prostitutes! Shameful! Immorality and degradation near the highest level of our government. At least JFK tried to mask his extramarital affairs. And Slick Willie? Well, what did you expect from a pig but a grunt?
He wasn’t sure this President was any better, but at least on the surface he was a decent family man. Posterity would surely record him as one of the most failed Presidents in American history, a man with obvious Islamic roots and sympathies at a time when our country was at war with jihadist terrorism. He’d admitted to smoking pot in the past, but who hadn’t? There were legitimate doubts about his citizenship, his religious background, and his ability to lead the nation.
At least he’s not a whoremonger.
The festivities continued late into the night. Various state dignitaries and Houston city officials made speeches, each one congratulating the other on their political successes, pledging undying support for the party in the upcoming election.
The President was the last speaker to take the podium, his ever-present tele-prompters spelling out a prearranged diatribe of inherited national debt, unstable economy, and health care reform that even he should know didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of success. He ranted on about the weakened American infrastructure, always placing the blame on the previous administration and promising to shore up the nation if the country would only stand behind him until the end of his second term.
What was the old saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me? But considering the candidates the Republicans ran against him in 2008 and again in 2012, he couldn’t do much worse. There were a few viable Republican candidates waiting in the wings for 2016 but he doubted if any of them could defeat a strong democrat ticket.
The doctor looked at his wristwatch and saw the time was well past eleven o’clock. The evening would end soon and the presidential party would whisk away to The Luxury Suites hotel where they’d spend the night before leaving for Austin in the morning. The President wouldn’t call on the governor, especially since he’d been a republican candidate for the presidency himself. But there were democrats in Austin whose voices and votes carried weight in Texas. So while he was there, he figured he might as well take advantage of them.
The doctor glanced at his watch again.
The night’s still young. There’s still time enough to make one call.
He thought about the secret service agents and the debauchery they’d be involved in later tonight.
Why should they have all the fun?
Chapter Eleven
FBI agent Grundy Cooper arrived at Gate-A of Dulles International, the larger of the two Washington DC airports. Even though Dulles is actually situated in Virginia, and Reagan National Airport is within short reach of the nation's capital, Cooper booked a direct flight to Dulles in order to save over three hours of layover time in Atlanta, Georgia.
Cooper was still as confused as ever about why he’d been assigned to a Washington DC task force and not given any briefing about the assignment. All he knew was that he’d been ordered to report to Special Agent Duncan Morris, the same cantankerous old bastard he’d met in Nashville three years ago. He assumed his friend, George Benjamin, would also be on the task force, but with the way the bureau assigned agents, he wouldn’t hold his breath or wish upon a star.
Washington DC! Wow! What an upgrade from Nashville, the Elvis-sighting mecca of the world, second only to Memphis. Nothing ever happened in Tennessee except for the occasional bootlegging debacle where they’d track down some old hillbilly brewing corn mash in a Smokey Mountain hollow somewhere. Maybe now he’d have the opportunity to do some real police work, the kind of work he’d signed up for.
Cooper spotted a tall black man standing against an upright support near the Gate-A exit. He recognized his friend, George Benjamin who smiled and waved at him. Cooper dropped his carry-on bag at George’s feet and shook his outstretched hand.
“You didn’t waste any time getting here,” Benjamin said.
“Hell no,” Cooper answered. “Chief Wills kicked my ass out of town the minute he got the transfer order. What’s up?”
George picked up Cooper’s bag and pointed him toward the baggage arrival terminal.
“You’re not going to believe it, even after I tell you.”
“Did you and Keller kill that crazy old bastard and now you need me to help dispose of his body?”
Benjamin laughed.
“Oh, it’s worse than that, Grundy. We need you to help us identify a serial killer pattern.”
Cooper stopped on the busy walkway, causing a woman behind him tugging a defiant four-year old boy on a leash to bump into him. “Hey, watch it, mister!”
“Sorry, lady,” Cooper said. “Are you all right?”
“Hell yes, I’m all right.”
She pulled the leash holding the squirming boy but he continued to wrap the leash around his mother’s legs and the carry-on bag she held in her left hand.
“Could I help you with the boy, ma’am?”
The lady threw an annoyed stare at Cooper. “Only if you want to take him home with you, mister.”
The boy pulled and tugged at the leash, causing his mother to stumble. Cooper caught her before she could fall.
Cooper remembered the boy from only a few seats behind him on the flight out from Nashville.
No wonder this woman’s about to lose her mind.
He removed his badge folder from his inside jacket pocket and bent down in front of the boy, showing it to the wriggling youth.
“You see this badge, boy?”
The boy stopped wiggling and stood still in front of the tall redheaded stranger. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at the badge.
“This badge says I’m a policeman,” Cooper said. “And if you don’t stop being a pest, I’m gonna lock you up in the calaboose. How’d you like that?”
The boy didn’t know what a calaboose was but he was sure he didn’t want to be locked up in it. He shook his head and unwrapped himself from around his mother’s legs.
George took Cooper by his elbow and pulled him up from in front of the boy.
“Come on, Marshall Dillon, you’re scaring the kid.”
Cooper smiled and playfully rubbed the boy’s head. “You be a good boy now, you hear?”
The boy nodded his head but didn’t speak. He still had visions of being hauled off to whatever a calaboose was.
Benjamin led Cooper toward the baggage claim area. He looked back over his shoulder at the boy and his mother.
“Kid’s just lucky it was you and not Morris.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because Morris would have handcuffed the brat to his mama’s leg.”
Benjamin thought about his two-year old son at home and the impending birth of his second child and wondered if one day he’d be leading a misbehaving child through a busy airport.
God help me.
George waited while Cooper claimed his suitcase and garment bag from the carous
el.
“Speaking of Morris, what does that maniac want with me? And don’t tell me it’s because he loves me.”
“No such luck,” Benjamin answered. “He’s still the same grumpy old racist bastard he was in Nashville.”
“Then what?”
Benjamin pointed to a table in a terminal coffee shop. Cooper ordered coffee with cream and sugar. Benjamin ordered a cup of hot tea, Earl Grey with lemon. Benjamin stirred his tea, all the while studying Cooper trying to seal the lid on his cup, pressing around the edge with his thumbs.
I hope I haven’t made a mistake.
Cooper looked back across the table at Benjamin. “You going to tell me what the hell’s going on or not?”
Benjamin nodded.
“You did your academy thesis on Jack the Ripper, didn’t you Grundy?”
“So?”
“And you came to the conclusion that Jack was a medical man, didn’t you? Maybe a doctor?”
Cooper sipped his coffee and studied George. “It wasn’t my theory,” he answered. “But the evidence at the time suggested Jack was someone with medical experience, and it was obvious that he had money. That’s all. Could have been a butcher or even a barber.”
“A barber?”
“Uh-huh.” Cooper took a tentative sip of his coffee. “There wasn’t a hell of a lot of doctors back then,” he continued. “And the ones they had weren’t trained very well.”
“But a barber?”
“Sure. Barbers didn’t just cut hair. They pulled teeth, served as undertakers, and in many cases performed medical procedures.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
Cooper stirred his coffee and wrinkled his nose at the pungent aroma.
“How can coffee this bad cost so much?”
Benjamin wondered if Cooper was up to the task of helping them catch this killer.
“Remember,” Cooper continued, “this was a time when the most advanced medical minds in England and the rest of Europe thought you could cure a headache by ingesting a potion of ground up dried mouse. They didn’t exactly have the Mayo Clinic.”
“Amazing,” George said. “But there were other theories, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And one theory was that he could have been a member of the royal household; possibly even Queen Victoria’s personal physician. Isn’t that correct, Coop?”
“He was a suspect but never charged with anything. Some people even thought it could have been the Queen’s son, Prince Edward the Seventh. But they could never prove it so no charges were filed. What are you getting at, George?”
Benjamin stirred the lemon into his tea. If he was wrong about this, he’d never live it down. But he wasn’t wrong. He knew deep down in his gut that he was right. He couldn’t prove it, and it didn’t make one damn bit of sense to the two senior agents that he had to convince. Once it elevated to Bureau Chief Lewellen Truck and FBI Director Carson Wheeling, his ass would really be in a sling if bringing in Cooper proved to be a red-herring.
But I’m not wrong. I know I’m not.
“You’ve heard about the prostitute serial killings that have been going on around the country for the last three years, haven’t you?”
Cooper shook his head. “Not really. That sort of thing is a little above my pay grade. But if you need coffee made or the trash taken out, I’m your man.”
“It’s Jack the Ripper, Grundy,” Benjamin said without any further explanation. “He’s back.”
Cooper stopped drinking his coffee. He held his cup just below his pursed lips and stared over the edge of the cup at George. He sat the cup down on the table, never taking his eyes off of Benjamin.
“I should'a hauled your ass off to the calaboose and left that damn kid alone.”
“Grundy, listen…
“You’ve gone right off the deep end hanging around that crazy son-of-a-bitch Morris. I should’a seen it coming.”
“I’m serious, Grundy!”
“George,” Cooper said. “Jack the Ripper hasn’t killed anyone in over a hundred years. How the hell…”
“I know it’s not him,” Benjamin cut him off. “Not really him in person anyway. But, but it’s him. I know it is. I can’t prove it or tie it all together, and I know it doesn’t make a lick of sense, but it’s him.”
“Does Latrice know you’ve slipped a gear? That you’ve stepped off the deep end?”
“I’m serious, Coop.”
“So it’s a copycat killer?” Cooper asked, repeating Keller’s question from yesterday.
Benjamin didn’t know how to answer Cooper. There was something about the series of killings that just didn’t feel like a copycat. They were sinister and evil with an aura of malevolence that transcended anything he’d ever studied about serial killers.
“It’s hard to explain, Grundy,” Benjamin answered. “I know it’s not really Jack the Ripper. On the other hand, I know it’s him. Does that make any sense at all?”
“Not one damn bit, brother.”
“It’s the spirit of the killings.”
“The spirit?”
“I can’t explain it. It’s as if the essence of Jack the Ripper is embodied in these kills. It’s like he’s really there killing these women. I can’t put my finger on why I know it’s him, but it is.”
“Brutal shit, huh?”
Benjamin nodded. He pushed away from the table and reached down to pick up Cooper’s carry-on and garment bags.
“You’re just going to have to see the files. Then you tell me. If you think I’m nuts, then you can go back to Nashville. No hard feelings.”
“And I guess I get to explain it to Morris too, don’t I, George?” Cooper asked. “You reckon he’ll tell me I’m worthless as tits on a boar hog like he did in Portland?”
Benjamin laughed and slapped his friend on his back. “You should hear some of the stuff he calls me.”
“I can imagine.”
“You, my friend, are fixing to jump out of the frying pan right into the big fire.”
“Then I’m damn happy I wore my asbestos drawers.”
Benjamin threw Cooper’s garment bag over his shoulder and pointed toward the terminal door and the parking lot beyond.
“Shall we go slay the dragon?”
Cooper shook his head and then gritted his teeth.
“So Morris really is waiting in the car, is he
”
Chapter Twelve
The killer eased into the darkened alcove. The basement entrance of the Luxury Suites Hotel afforded a perfect place to hide and wait for the prostitutes to arrive. He knew they traveled in groups of two or three. He’d seen it all before; the stinking bitches with their short skirts, painted faces, and press-on fingernails. He could smell their cheap perfume and body powder trying to mask their perversion, the odor of God only knew how many men spilling their unholy seed onto them.
He knew which one he wanted. Bitch named Liz.
My mother’s name was Elizabeth.
He’d been listening when that tall fool of an agent that handled outside security called the escort service. Dumb bastard called her on his cell phone; a unit provided to him by the government for the protection of the President.
Jackass didn’t have enough brains to take it off speaker. You’d think a black man in this country would have better sense than that. Guess we can’t all be smart.
Liz, he thought. It’s probably not her real name, just a fake name to go along with the fake tits she uses for the deception and debauchery of men.
She’ll be wearing a red leather mini with matching cowgirl boots and hat and red leather vest.
She told the agent she’d be running a little late but would arrive around 1:30.
“I’ll make it worth your time,” he muttered under his breath.
He’d heard that line before. Other lines stuck in his mind, lines he’d heard as a boy in Chicago. ‘Your wife’s not giving you what you need at home, is she honey?’ He could
still hear her talk to men, dirty men that climbed the back stoop to the filthy tenement building where he shared a one room apartment with his mother after his worthless father abandoned them. ‘You can be yourself here, sugar.’
The words. He could still hear the words. He could see those low-life maggots pawing at her, fumbling with her clothes, the crumpled twenty dollar bills thrown haphazard onto the dresser beside the bed. He could smell their sweat and their stinking Aqua Velva after shave, hear their pathetic moans and groans while they rode his mother for a minute, sometimes two like the pathetic, stinking whore she was, her legs spread open inviting the scum of the Earth to debauch her.
“The kid?” the men would ask about the 5-year old boy sitting in a corner across the room, his knees pulled up to his chest as if protecting himself from a harmful presence or a pain that wouldn’t go away.
“What about the kid, Lizzy?”
They called her Lizzy; sometimes Liz. The men never called her Elizabeth. Instead of fulfilling its beautiful Greek-Hebrew meaning of My God is an Oath, or My God is Abundance, they always shortened it; cheapened it—made it a common nickname without meaning or significance.
“Don’t mind the boy. He don’t matter none.”
The killer examined his surroundings. The basement entrance wasn’t like the parking garage where the motorcade transports were parked, and where a security detail guarded the presidential limousine and other key vehicles. This place was dimly lit with only a few sputtering florescent bulbs to light the way to the employee entrance where the cleaning crew and other menial laborers clocked in for their shifts.
He’d ridden the employee elevator down from the eighth floor and hadn’t seen a soul. The third shift came on at 11 pm so he knew there wouldn’t be anyone clocking in for another several hours.
The basement reminded him of another place and time but he couldn’t remember when or where. It was someplace dark and dank and hemmed in with fog. The buildings were old and musty. He couldn’t place it and he couldn’t remember ever being there, but he knew it was real. The odor of rotting cabbage and human feces assaulted his senses as if he were standing in an open pit of waste at this moment.
