by Jim Laughter
He opened his eyes and spied his mother across the room. Why did she do these things? Why couldn’t she get a regular job like the mothers of the other boys he knew? Why did she allow these dirty men to touch her the way they did? Why did she allow them to hurt her and sometimes him? Will it ever change? Will it ever be any different?
Chapter Twenty-Four
She trembled in his arms, her semi-nude body pressed against his chest. He could feel fear permeate from her like the low heat from a dinner candle. She tried to resist but was no match for his strength. Tears stained her cheeks, smearing the heavy mascara under her eyes, streaking her face into a hideous ghoul.
The killer held his scalpel against her throat, knowing he was the only thing between her and eternity. But did this creature of the night believe in eternity? Could a woman who sold her body to any man with a few dollars in his pocket have any true concept of infinity?
“Do you believe in God?” he whispered into her ear.
She whimpered. Her captor’s hand released from over her mouth but fear still filled her. She hadn’t expected the man who had picked her up in the black Town Car to be a maniac. He looked normal. He was well dressed and clean.
It hadn’t taken long after he’d instructed her to strip to the waist that he’d attacked her. She leaned against his bare chest expecting a reach-around foreplay of her breasts, moving on to the main point of business, probably from behind which was normal for this type of client. Now she found herself in a situation she feared she would not survive.
“I asked you a question. Do you believe in God?”
The prostitute nodded. She still couldn’t speak for fear her captor might cut her with the knife he held against her throat. She could feel the sharp blade biting into her skin. She couldn’t imagine how this manic could talk about God while holding a half-naked woman against his own body.
“Is God real?” he asked. “Is there a divine spark that separates mankind from the other animals?”
Is he asking my opinion, or is he just talking?
“God is real,” she said, her voice low and broken. “He’s all knowing and all powerful. He sees everything and he loves everyone.”
The killer pressed the blade harder against her throat. He had visions of his own mother lying naked with some man in a dark alley; visions that scarred his youth and marked him for life.
He hated this woman trembling in his arms. He didn’t know why he hated her, he just did. Everything about her repulsed him, from her gaudy almost non-existent clothing to the stench of her cheap dollar store perfume.
His hands shook ever so slightly, drawing a trickle of blood from skin stretched tight. He turned her face toward him so he could look into her eyes but he didn’t see God in them. All he saw was fear—fear that she was going to pass into eternity soon.
But would she meet this God she said was real? Did she have some kind of relationship with this eternal deity prominently advertised as the hope of mankind, a savior that had died to redeem humanity from his sin?
Could death be the answer to learning the truth about eternity? Did life begin anew when a person passed from one reality to another? Did this God she claimed to be so real stand on the edge of an infinite abyss waiting for the souls of men to cross over into a state of eternal life?
“Your name is Mary Jane, isn’t it?” he asked the frightened woman. “Didn’t you say your name is Mary Jane?”
She nodded. “Yes sir.”
She stared into his eyes. They looked dark and hollow; no light shone from them.
“Is that your real name or just a name you use for business?”
“It’s my real name,” she answered. “I’m named after my mother. She’s…”
Before Mary Jane could finish her sentence, the killer drew the scalpel across her throat, opening a deep gash from left to right. Her words caught in her throat and gurgled with the blood filling her larynx. Bright ribbons of arterial blood spurted from the incision.
The killer still looked into the prostitute’s eyes, searching for that certain spark that identified humanity as something more than just another mammal. He felt her warm blood flow over him, relishing the life it represented but still void of the soul he failed to see depart his experiment.
“I hope there’s a God, Mary Jane,” he whispered into her ear. “I hope you meet him soon.”
Mary Jane’s body trembled and shook and her legs kicked in a violent spasm while her life spilled onto the cold tiles of the public men’s room where she’d brought her customer. Then with one last tremendous shutter, she fell limp in her killer’s arms.
He watched. He waited. He hoped to see her spirit depart her mortal body. But just as he’d experienced so many times in the past, the eternal spirit, the soul of Mary Jane, failed to manifest itself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You and Keller are takin' a trip,” Duncan Morris said to Benjamin.
The four agents sat at a conference table in the Washington DC headquarters building of the FBI. They’d poured over the case files of the murdered women they suspected were victims of the Jack the Ripper killer. Morris wasn’t convinced the killer embodied the spirit of the famed serial killer the way Benjamin expressed it, but whoever the killer turned out to be would certainly be one sick or crazy son of a bitch.
Morris thought about that crazy preacher in the Apostle Murders case who believed God had commissioned him to recreate the martyrdom of the original apostles of Jesus Christ. If a man who had dedicated his whole life to the ministry and service to his fellow man could snap like that, what kind of nutcase were they dealing with now? Only in-depth investigation would reveal the maniac and solve the case.
“Trip sir?” Benjamin asked.
“Texas.”
Keller pushed a folder containing the Houston police report about the murder of Elizabeth Simmons across the table to Benjamin. It also contained her full autopsy report and crime scene photographs. Benjamin flipped through the pages. He’d seen the autopsy report when it first came out but this was the first time he’d seen the photos. He tasted acrid bile rise in this throat as he cast his eyes on the gristly pictures.
Benjamin recalled the murder photographs of Thomas Waverly at an interstate rest area just outside of Shamrock, Texas almost three years ago. This was the murder that had gained him entry onto Morris’ and Keller’s investigation team. He’d correctly analyzed a serial killer’s pattern, impressing the two senior agents.
Waverly had been murdered by a man they’d dubbed the Interstate Serial Killer because he killed people along interstate highways and in national parks. Benjamin remembered that Waverly’s body had been found by a family when they’d pulled off the highway to have a picnic. His half-naked body had been displayed on the ground with an East Indian lance thrust through his heart as part of a religious reenactment of a martyred apostle. His body had also been coated with calamine lotion, a subtle reference to the martyrdom of the Apostle Thomas in Calamine Province, India.
Those pictures had been bad but this was worse. He’d never seen or even imagined human butchery like this. The woman’s body, if that’s what you could call it, had been torn to pieces as if an enraged maniac had attacked her bent on leaving her unrecognizable as a human being.
It appeared that every inch of her flesh had been slashed, stabbed, or cut away in one way or another, starting from her head all the way down to her feet, cleaving off even several of her toes. She’d been disemboweled and her internal organs spilled onto the floor, creating a scene from a medieval torture chamber.
What kind of rage or malevolent spirit could fill a man and cause him to inflict his kind of damage to another human being?
“My God in heaven,” Benjamin muttered under his breath. He turned from terrible picture to terrible picture, each one taking on more horrible details of maniacal rage. Both sickening revulsion and an excitement he didn’t understand filled him. On one hand the killer was certainly a deranged lunatic, while on the
other hand he exhibited every known aspect of Jack the Ripper.
“You and Keller are leaving for Houston this afternoon,” Morris said. “I want you to dig deep into this case and see if it ties in with anything else we’re workin' on.”
“Yes sir.”
“Keller is lead on this, rookie,” Morris continued. “You clear everything through her before you go off on one of your crazy ass theories.”
“Yes sir.”
“And you keep your damn Bible in your pocket. We don’t what them Texans thinkin' you’re on some kind’a religious witch hunt down there.”
Benjamin wasn’t sure exactly what kind of crazy ass theory Morris was talking about but he knew enough to agree with the senior agent and leave it at that.
Morris turned to Keller.
“Don’t let them Texas rednecks give ya no shit.”
“I won’t.”
“Them boys in the Houston police department ain’t gonna be none too happy about you showin' up and pokin' around their business.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I don’t reckon that hotel is gonna have a welcomin' committee out there jumpin' up and down to greet you at the door neither.”
“I can handle it,” Keller said. “What are you and Cooper going to do?”
Morris reached over and laid his hand on Cooper’s shoulder. A look of dread crossed the red-headed agent’s face.
“Me and Woody here are gonna check out a few of these home-grown unsolved prostitute murders. See if we can’t link them to this Jack the Ripper bullshit.”
“Bullshit, sir?” Benjamin asked. “Do you still disagree these murders are reminiscent of Jack the Ripper?”
“You and Keller just pay attention to the hooker in Houston,” Morris said. “Leave Washington to me. We’ll let Cooper worry about Jack the friggin' Ripper.”
“Yes sir.”
With the murder rate in Washington DC one of the highest in the country, the DC police didn’t have the time, money, or manpower to spend too much of either on these kinds of cases. It wasn’t unusual for the body of a prostitute to turn up in a park or along a waterway, common places for working girls to take their Johns for a few minutes of business.
Another category of unsolved case they’d run across in their investigation was drug related murders, but those mostly involved young to middle-age black men, not exactly the demographic they were investigating here.
Of the dozen unsolved cases Morris had stacked in front of him, Benjamin knew at least half of them had been killed by stabbing or other sharp instrument contact. He didn’t know all of the details but if these were linked to the case they were working on, he knew Morris would ferret it out. He couldn’t imagine the turmoil Morris was going to put Cooper through but he suspected he just wanted to keep Cooper around so he could torture and insult him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
FBI agents Lynn Keller and George Benjamin arrived at the Luxury Suites Hotel in downtown Houston, Texas late in the afternoon on Thursday. They’d boarded their non-stop coach flight out of Dulles International Airport at 1:50 pm for the 2-hour and 24 minute flight.
Keller’s back ached from the kid behind her kicking her seat. Her motherly instincts refrained her from turning around and smacking the brat. Had it been Morris instead of her, she had no doubt the kid would have occupied an overhead compartment for the duration of the flight.
Benjamin considered his second child due in only a few months. What kind of traveler would she be? He thought about the little boy Cooper had calmed down his first day in Washington. He rubbed his own sore back and missed not having access to the director’s private jet like they’d had when they’d investigated the Apostle Murders case.
A two-year old no-frills Ford Taurus Budget Rental car awaited them at the airport. Once they finished in Houston, they would drive to Austin, the state capital, to follow-up on any information they might uncover concerning the President’s visit, then on to any other city that might warrant their attention.
When Benjamin and Keller entered the hotel, they drew stares and whispers from people throughout the lobby and behind the reception counter. A young athletic black man and middle-age white woman checking into a hotel together with luggage in Houston, Texas wasn’t normal protocol. Although Texans claim to be modern-progressive, there are still very deep-rooted prejudices and mindsets.
The fact the two agents weren’t sharing a room was lost on the viewpoint of people watching from a distance or the desk clerk processing their arrival. The clerk’s sneering attitude triggered an inner response from Keller.
She noticed the nametag of a man wearing a blue jacket standing back from the reception counter. It said Manager. She caught his eye and signaled that she’d like to speak to him. As he approached, she removed her FBI credentials and presented it so he and the rest of his counter staff could see it.
“Yes ma’am?” the manager said, the tone of his voice a little too snobbish for Keller’s taste. “May I help you?”
Ma’am, Benjamin thought. He saw Keller cringe at the word. This is going to be ugly.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Lynn Keller.”
“Ma’am.”
Turning to George she said, “This is my partner, Agent George Benjamin.”
“Sir,” the manager said, not sounding fully convinced George was really a sir to him.
George thought he saw the same glean of disdain in this manager’s eyes that he’d seen in Morris’ the first day they’d met three years ago. He imagined there was going to be a mountain of preconceived prejudice to conquer if they were going to uncover any valuable information about the murder of Elizabeth Simmons.
“We’re here to investigate the murder of Elizabeth Simmons here in your hotel,” Keller said loud enough for everyone behind the counter and thirty feet into the lobby to hear.
Her announcement and credentials caught the hotel manager by surprise. He knew his office had been contacted about a possible FBI investigation but he understood the Houston police closed the case and diverted any negative response away from his hotel. These two agents showing up in the middle of the afternoon and announcing they were there to investigate the murder of a prostitute could cause embarrassment for the hotel.
“Ma’am, please….”
“In the basement parking garage, I believe,” Keller continued, still louder than necessary. “A prostitute? One of your regulars, I believe. Is that correct?”
“Ma’am, please,” the manager repeated, this time with a nervous twinge in his voice. He motioned for Keller and Benjamin to follow him into a small office adjacent the reception counter.
“But what about our luggage and checking in to our rooms?” Keller asked. “We wouldn’t want to bypass any important procedures.”
“My staff will take care of that, ma’am.”
“But we need to pay,” Keller continued, still annoyed they’d been snubbed and disrespected by the reception clerk, an apparent attitude passed on from her manager.
The manager whispered to the receptionist, “Check them in, gratis. Fourth floor suites.”
The clerk turned to face her manager. “Gratis, sir?”
“Free, Sarah,” he whispered, his voice harsher than he intended. He saw shock and surprise fill her eyes. “Check them in, now. No charge.”
The manager ushered Keller and Benjamin into the small office near the reception desk. Keller could tell the man was embarrassed and frustrated. She knew the little scene she’d staged in the lobby had caught him off guard.
“I’m afraid you caught me a little unprepared, Agent Keller.”
“Special Agent,” Keller said.
“Sorry ma’am, ah, I mean Special Agent Keller.”
He was still flustered but Keller didn’t care. She hated prejudice and refused to let it pass without at least trying to correct it.
“I’m sorry, mister…”
“Roberts, ma’am. Henry Roberts.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts f
or the scene, but I didn’t care for the attitude of your clerk or most of your guests in the lobby.”
“Yes ma’am. My apologies.”
“I hope this isn’t the same attitude we’ll encounter while we’re conducting our investigation.”
“No ma’am.”
“Because if it is, you may very well find yourself and your whole damn staff facing obstruction charges.”
Benjamin had only seen Keller with her back up like his once before, and that was when she’d lambasted Morris for accosting a witness three years ago in Nashville, Tennessee. She was usually calm and collected, a tower of maternal strength. He hoped the scene she’d caused wouldn’t hinder their investigation.
“No ma’am,” Roberts answered. “I promise you’ll have our full cooperation. It’s just that…”
“It’s just that you run a high end hotel here with upper class guests,” Keller cut him off. “After all, the President of the United States stays here when he’s in town, and you don’t want to give anyone the idea that you’re running a brothel. Is that what you mean, Mr. Roberts?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chicago. Inner city school seventh grade after gym class, boy’s locker room—the shower. A lithe 12-year old youth lay huddled on the floor, naked and alone—cold. The hot water of the shower had long since cooled but his pain and fear had not. School, a noble institution of education and nurturing of young minds was not supposed to be a place of abuse.
Yet here he lay, a tortured child who knew only neglect. He’d recognized the new gym teacher as one of the dirty men that had been to his apartment. Even worse, the teacher recognized him as the boy at the foot of the bed. He’d whispered into the frightened child’s ear.
“I’ll kill you and your mother if you say anything.”
He wept.
Pushing up from the tiled shower floor and stumbling into the locker room, the boy dressed in his Goodwill used blue jeans and pullover shirt. He was careful not to strain his right arm, the one the teacher had twisted behind his back while he’d molested him. The pain coursing through his small body was one felt only by an abused child.
