by Jim Laughter
But George hadn’t swept her off her feet the last several days, not since this new case was occupying all of his thoughts and time. He’d come home, lay his briefcase on the table, kiss her hello, and then retire to the living room where he’d turn on a ballgame or some other sporting event, maybe play with the baby for a while.
It was as if his mind were a million miles away in a place of darkness and despair. Something terrible occupied the space that should have been reserved for her.
“I put him down for a nap,” she answered.
Latrice was tall and thin, the picture of the perfect wife. Her long, straight black hair hung down over her ebony shoulders, and her slender arms extended from her sleeveless blouse to her perfect waist.
A small pooch of her pregnancy was just beginning to show, another subject of tension she knew weighed heavy on her husband. They hadn’t planned to have another child for at least two or three years, but one thing led to the next, and much to the delight of their parents, the inevitable happened.
After a moment, George gathered Latrice into his arms, grateful for even a moment of normalcy. This is more like it, she thought. She clung to him, wrapping her long arms around his neck. She kissed him on the neck, something she knew he liked and turned him on.
He held her for a moment, not saying anything. Something was wrong. This wasn’t his normal embrace. This wasn’t going to be the moment he’d lift her up and carry her to the bedroom. There was a foreboding in his touch as if the future was bleak.
Latrice unwrapped her arms from around George’s neck and stepped back away from him. He stood there, a forlorn look on his face.
“Something’s going on and you best tell me what it is.”
George looked his young wife up and down from head to toe. How had he gotten so lucky? What providence had blessed him with this divine woman? She’d become part of him, an extension of his being, a union ordained by heaven. What would he do if he were to ever lose her, or even worse, place her in danger? How could he live with himself if anything were to ever happen to her?
He was just beginning to realize that out there among the citizenry lived men with no morality that were willing to take the lives of women. And although Latrice was nothing like the women being killed in this current case, he knew it would only take a moment for a killer along her running path to step out of nowhere and hurt her. Was the life he’d chosen worth the risk? Was his ambition of being an FBI agent justification enough to endanger her and their children?
“George?” Latrice repeated. “Something’s up. What’s going on?”
“I’m going on assignment,” he said without preamble or explanation. “I can’t tell you where or for how long or any of the details.”
“George?”
“All I can tell you is that I’m going undercover, I’ll be out of town most of the time, and you won’t be able to contact me.”
“What you mean is it’s dangerous.”
How does she do it? How does she see right through me? Am I that transparent?
“I mean there’s a very small chance that I might get hurt.”
“What you mean is there’s a chance you might get killed! Is that what you mean, George?”
He didn’t answer. There was no need. He couldn’t hide anything from her. He could put on a brave face at the office for Morris, Keller, and Cooper, but Latrice knew him better than anyone else in the world.
“I don’t really think there’s a chance…”
“You don’t think there’s a chance of what, getting killed? Is that what you’re going to say? That everything is going to be just fine and you’re not going to be in danger? Is that what you’re trying to say to me?”
“Latrice, honey…”
“It’s that crazy old bastard Morris, isn’t it? He’s sending you on a dangerous assignment because he’s either too stupid or inept to do it himself, isn’t he?”
He didn’t answer but she could see in his eyes that she was right.
“You’ve paid your dues, babe,” she said. “You don’t have to prove yourself to that maniac. He treats you like dirt under his feet and you just let him walk all over you. You’re better than that, George.”
Now it was his turn to be assertive. He appreciated her concern. He loved her and he knew she loved him, but enough was enough.
“It’s not like that at all,” he said. “Morris is only…”
“Morris is only what, throwing you under a bus so he can…”
“Now Latrice!” he interrupted. “Morris is only doing his job!”
“His job?” she countered. “Putting you in danger is his job?”
“No damn it!” he shouted. “Catching some crazy son of a bitch killing women in this town and across the country is his job! And if sending me on assignment will help, then so be it.”
She stepped back away from him. He’d never cursed at her before or even raised his voice in anger. This was their first fight, and it was coming at a time when she knew she should be supportive and when he had a lot on his mind.
“Besides, he’s not throwing me under a bus,” he said. “I volunteered. Me and Grundy. We both volunteered because there’s a killer out there and we may be the only ones that can catch him.”
“But…”
“And if it means I may have to face a little danger in order to save the lives of God only knows how many women, then it’s my duty to do it. Can’t you see that?”
Latrice pouted out her lower lip. She knew there was no talking him out of it. Instead, she’d be the supportive wife she knew he needed right now.
“When are you leaving,” she asked, resigned to the fact that her nights were going to be lonely for a while.
“It will take a few days to set everything in motion,” he answered. “Monday probably.”
Latrice reached out and took George by his hand and led him toward the bedroom. It wasn’t exactly like being swept off her feet but she was determined to make the rest of the week and possibly their final weekend together a memorial one.
Chapter Thirty-Six
How can she do this again? How can she bring me to another cheap hotel room and make me watch her with another dirty man? How can she pretend to love him when all he’ll do is use her then throw her away? Why does she touch him that way, and why does she let him do those things to her? Doesn’t she have any pride? Doesn’t she care about me? And when he finishes with her, will he turn on me? Will this man hurt me the way so many others have? Will he make me remove my clothes and force himself onto me, hurting me the way the gym teacher hurt me that time in the shower? Will he make me do things to him that makes me vomit afterward? I hate her for this. Someday I’ll make her pay for this. He’s finished with her. He’s looking at me. He’s coming toward me. He’s going to hurt me!
∞∞∞∞
He’d been cooped up in his office since their return from the Midwest trip where he’d only been able to dispose of the sluts in Houston and Detroit. They’d visited a dozen cities and the desire to kill had almost driven him mad. But with the tight presidential itinerary, he’d not been able to find the time or the opportunity to satisfy his need.
Now there was something ripping away at his insides, a force he didn’t understand demanding him to hunt again. What was this terrible urge? Was it God demanding he seek the source of life, or was it something more sinister? He wasn’t sure he believed in God. He’d found no evidence of such a being in existence. He believed there was a fundamental difference between humanity and other mammals but he wasn’t sure if the differences were organic or spiritual. He’d watched the light fade from the eyes of dozens of women and had not seen the essence of life.
Being back in his office and seeing patients again had not settled the murderous desires so deeply rooted in his psyche. Every time a patient exposed herself to him and complained of one malady or another, his only desire was to rip out her throat. He needed to see blood flow from an open incision and not care if she lived or died. H
e didn’t want to concern himself with a sterile operating room or anesthetics. He only wanted to feel the relief of his blade slicing through tender flesh. He couldn’t contain himself any longer. He had to hunt. He had to unleash whatever inner demon it was that demanded him to act. He could resist no longer.
The bitch on the dimly lit street corner waved at him as the Town Car approached her. She wasn’t particularly attractive. She had an air about her that he remembered from his youth. Her short leather skirt and fishnet stockings screamed cheap whore. Any man with a few dollars in his pocket could have her. She looked like the kind of woman that would spread herself open to any man, and who would perform any act of sexual perversion he demanded and was willing to pay for. A vision of his mother forced itself inside his head. He could see her standing there instead of this pathetic creature.
He pulled the car over to the curb. She approached the passenger side and leaned against the door. Bending over just far enough to expose her breasts to him, she waited for him to roll down the window. When he hesitated, she lifted the door handle, trying to open the door which he’d yet to unlock.
These Washington sluts are the worse.
Brazen and bold. They’re accustomed to men of low moral fiber, crooked cops and politicians; men unworthy of their positions in life, willing to consort with the dregs of society. He thought about the Secret Service agents on the President’s detail and the debasement of their positions of trust. These whores deserve what they get, and the men that dally with them deserve whatever diseases they contract.
He lowered the window only a few inches, just enough to see her clearly. Her dirty red hair looked more like a wig than natural. Her lipstick was smeared, probably from the last man she’d serviced. He suspected she took her clients to a rundown hotel in the middle of the block or to the alley behind the dilapidated building. She had sunken eyes surrounded by dark mascara, and her fingers were stained with tar and nicotine from the thousands of cigarettes she’d smoked in her lifetime.
The killer pressed the button on his door panel to unlock the passenger door. He felt an excitement well up in him, not a sexual pleasure but one of anticipation. His greatest anticipation was knowing he’d be leaving for the west coast on Monday where he’d find the denizen of shame he’d seen in his dreams.
He smiled at the woman in the passenger seat. He’d end her miserable life soon.
This bitch will do until I can satisfy my need out west.
His inner demon stirred. And although he hated to travel, California was looking better all the time.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The car carrying Benjamin and Cooper stopped at the west gate of the White House. George powered down the driver side window and waited for the security guard to approach their vehicle. He spotted an old man inside the guard shack. He suspected the man had been on the job for many years.
“He looks friendly enough,” Cooper said. “Bet he’s been here since Lincoln.”
George didn’t answer. After all, this was the White House and he knew there were entry procedures they’d have to pass or they’d never get through the gate. He wouldn’t take it for granted that just because the guard appeared to be nearing retirement age that he’d be any less diligent in his duties. Besides, George knew there were security snipers stationed on the roof of the executive mansion to prevent anyone from crashing the gate or trying to gain access to White House property.
Louis Teague, the west gate guard, approached the car so he could check their identifications. Both agents felt out of place in this environment, especially since neither was carrying his weapon. This assignment wasn’t exactly Mission Impossible where the bureau would disavow any knowledge of them if they were killed or captured. But it did mean they would not be allowed to carry a firearm or any other kind of weaponry while on this detail. They’d have only their wits and common sense to keep them safe. Benjamin wondered if that would be enough.
The mission Morris outlined to them appeared simple enough on the surface—become part of the presidential motorcade and try to get an inside picture of who on the President’s staff could be killing prostitutes while the presidential party traveled the country. Their assignment—alternate drivers for the two limousines in the secure package, which meant they’d ride in the front seats and take over if anything happened to the primary drivers.
Benjamin remembered an old Kevin Costner movie where Costner, a professional security man protecting Whitney Houston, a singing star, had told a limo driver that in an assassination attempt, even if the target escaped, one person always got hit—the cocky chauffeur.
What’s the name of that movie? Something to do with a bodyguard.
Simple, Benjamin thought. Then again, it could be extremely dangerous. If the killer was someone on the President’s security detail, he’d be armed and trained to kill, not to mention suspicious of new men joining the motorcade. He knew once they joined the motorcade, the Secret Service would surely examine the fake credentials the bureau had dummied up for them. He only hoped they’d stand up to the scrutiny the service would put them through.
This wasn’t the bureau’s first undercover operation, and he knew they’d created fake credentials before. But these weren’t just any fake identifications. These were his, and he didn’t relish the idea of meeting a maniac face to face with only his good looks to fend off a serial killer intent on protecting his identity.
Benjamin didn’t expect the killer would be a Secret Service agent; not with the medical skills required to kill the way the prostitutes had been killed. But there had to be something going on with the security detail to have allowed a killer to get close enough to the President in Houston to kill Elizabeth Simmons in the parking garage of the Luxury Suites Hotel.
Were they incompetent? Maybe they’d been distracted by something. But how could a dozen heavily armed agents allow a killer access to the hotel? Perhaps the killer is someone they absolutely trust; someone with access to the hotel and who is beyond reproach.
The only concrete clue they had was that the killer was a black man, which would help narrow down their search a little. The DNA trace failed to draw any conclusions about the killer’s identity, which was a million to one shot anyway. He and Cooper would have to ferret out the answer from the inside.
They’d examined the portfolios of everyone assigned to the motorcade, including all primary and alternate personnel. Of the sixty-three people detailed to the motorcade, almost half of them, including three on the Secret Service detail, were black or of some other ethnic descent that could account for the Negroid DNA trace.
Narrowing down the field of suspects would take time; time Benjamin hoped they had before the killer could strike again. Their first cross-country trip was scheduled to leave in three days. They’d not been briefed on the destination due to security concerns. But having access to the President’s itinerary, they knew their destination was San Francisco, California so the President could help bolster up their failing economy.
Their major obstacle would be communications. They’d need to stay in touch with each other without arousing suspicion, and they already knew they’d not be able to use their personal cell phones while driving.
The bureau issued them each a VLF (very low frequency) personal transmitter and receiver concealed in James Bond-style wristwatches tuned to a secure channel. But they’d also been briefed about the Mobile Command and Control Vehicle (MCCV), a heavily fortified Chevrolet Suburban which provides the primary communications path via satellite, allowing bi-directional voice, data and streaming video. It also contains state-of-the-art detection equipment which is second to none in the world. The bureau would not be monitoring their communications since the transmitters had very limited range. Morris said they could not guarantee the MCCV couldn’t pick up any conversation between the two agents. This was just another danger factor they’d have to take into consideration.
“You two the new drivers?” Teague asked when he reached Benjamin�
�s window.
“Yes sir,” George answered, handing Teague the credentials the bureau had created up for them.
Teague examined their identifications while all the time studying the faces and demeanor of the two men in the car. He matched their names to a list of names on a clipboard he carried. The time he took seemed inordinately long to Benjamin but he assumed it was just the old man’s way.
“You men pull around to the back of the house and park under the covered portico,” Teague said. “Report to Bob Toolie in the garage. He’s in charge of the drivers.”
“Yes sir,” Benjamin answered. “And thank you officer…”
“Teague,” Lou answered. “Louis Teague. Just call me Lou. Happy to meet you.”
“Thank you, Lou,” George answered.
Teague stepped back away from the car and signaled a man standing in the guard shack to open the heavy iron gate. The gate swung open without making even a screeching sound, a well-oiled piece of equipment worthy of the house it protected. He waved the undercover agents through and watched their car disappear around the driveway leading to the back of the mansion.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Benjamin knocked on the open office door inside the garage behind the White House. A large white man sitting at an oversized cluttered desk looked up at him from a report he’d been reading.
He didn’t look like he belonged behind a desk. George could envision him as a bodyguard or even a professional wrestler. His hands spread out on the desk like first-baseman mitts, and his knuckles looked like they’d been broken a number of times. His face was weathered and cracked as if he’d spent too many hours in the sun and wind. He had that ‘don’t screw with me or I’ll bust your ass’ air about him.
A commercial fisherman maybe, George thought.
