by Jim Laughter
Finding the opportune time to call might pose a problem. He could text Keller. It wouldn’t do any good to text Morris, the most technologically-challenged man he’d ever met. The old fool didn’t even know how to set the clock on his own microwave and who still carried an old LG flip phone. George also had the fleeting dread that if their suspicions proved viable, they might have to bring Toolie into their confidence, a prospect he wasn’t happy about.
George watched out the front windshield of the Suburban as they approached the University of San Francisco. He didn’t know much about the school except that it is a coeducational Jesuit Catholic university founded in 1855 and was the first established university in San Francisco. The school's main campus, a sprawling 55-acre setting located on Lone Mountain, the peak of one of San Francisco’s major hills between the Golden Gate Bridge and Golden Gate Park, gave the university its nickname, The Hilltop.
The motorcade wound its way through the campus to Saint Ignatius Church, an imposing double-spire building that George suspected could be seen from all parts of the city. Why the organizers of the meet-and-greet had selected this location instead of an assembly hall or auditorium, George couldn’t fathom. Then again, the choice may have been made by the school officials to accentuate their religious affiliation and standing in the community. Either way, George knew he and Cooper would not be allowed inside, just as they hadn’t been included at the Academy of Sciences.
It didn’t take long for the President to conclude his visit with the university staff and faculty, and to congratulate a dozen honor students on their achievements. He asked each one about their ambitions for the future and hoped they’d go on to fulfill their dreams. The campus media, which included their own television studio, radio station, and annual campus magazine, clung to every word spoken by the chief executive. They’d record this day as another milestone of academic achievement, one they could promote in their drive to recruit only the best student candidates.
The motorcade left the University of San Francisco immediately after the President’s meet-and-greet and made its way through town. Traffic moved out of the way to make room for The Beast and other vehicles to pass, the Suburban included. People waved from their car windows or snapped pictures with their phones. Parents stood on sidewalks holding small children on their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the executive transport.
Reaching the I-80, California Highway Patrol units, both motorcycle and cruisers, relieved the city police as escorts and would remain with the motorcade for the 90-mile drive to Sacramento. They set a casual 65-mile an hour pace northwest toward Travis Air Force Base where they would refuel and the President would eat lunch with senior officers in the officer’s club before visiting a unit set to deploy to Afghanistan later in the month. They would be back on the road by 4 pm for their final leg to Sacramento where the motorcade would separate to their accommodations. The President and his party would go to a luxury hotel that George and Cooper were not privy too, and they would go a national chain where the rooms would be less than luxurious.
The hotel accommodations weren’t what concerned George. He was more concerned about how they were going to complete their mission. He looked behind them out the back window of the Suburban and saw the ambulance keeping pace. He wondered what could be going through the mind of the man he suspected of being the reincarnation of an infamous serial killer. He also wondered if he was already planning his next kill, and if he and Cooper would be in any position to stop him.
Chapter Forty-Four
What is this force eating away at me? Why can’t I get the terrible images of my mother and my battered youth out of my mind? Is this desire to kill tearing at my soul a natural force or am I deranged past all hope of repair? Were the words spoken to me as a child the determining factor of my life? Am I really a useless little shit, an accident, a worthless object only good for sexual abuse when the dirty men finished with my whore of a mother? Has my life of accomplishment all been for nothing? Do I matter? Do I have a soul or am I just an empty shell? Is there a God out there somewhere, and if so, why has he abandoned me and allowed whatever it is that haunts my conscience to possess me?
He’d graduated high school as Valedictorian of his class regardless of his poverty-stricken past and lack of a stable home life. It took four days for his mother’s body to be discovered in the ragbag hotel. The police only gave is mother’s murder a cursory look. Even though her death had been ruled a homicide, given the nature of her lifestyle, no arrest had been made nor anyone prosecuted for it.
Although he was looked at as a possible suspect, his alibi of studying late at the library appeased the Chicago city police. They questioned him on why he hadn’t reported her missing and was satisfied with his answer that she often stayed away for up to a week without returning home. They had bigger fish to fry in a city where violence on the street is common place. One murdered prostitute wasn’t worthy of too much of their time or resources.
He’d gotten away with murder; his first kill. But his scars would never heal. The image of his mother’s naked body gyrating to some inner music rubbing up against him in a sexual manner still haunted him, leaving an indelible imprint on his psyche that this was how all prostitutes treated their children. Any woman willing to display her body to men for money and debase herself before her offspring didn’t deserve to live.
He could still feel the scalpel in his hand as it cut through the soft flesh of her throat; the tremble of her body and her gasp for air as blood poured from the open wound and spilled down her body to form a pool of life-source on the dirty floor. He remembered cutting her open to find her heart, the place where love is rumored to hide but found only a lifeless organ devoid of a soul or God.
College and medical school flew by in flash. Columbia University wasn’t a walk in the park but neither was it as difficult as he’d been led to believe. Although a loner by nature, he’d managed to make a few friends, one a political science exchange student from Africa that he believed had the potential to rise in the world. He claimed Chicago, his own home town, as his official residence, even though his nationality was Kenyan.
He’d kept his eye on this young man as he rose through the ranks of politics, never holding any office of significance, yet always positioned for advancement. He’d served in minor city and state governmental roles before being elected to the U.S. Senate from Illinois but had never sponsored any important legislation. He made it a point to hitch his wagon to this rising star, believing one day he’d be picked out of obscurity by the far left wing of politics to advance to the highest levels of government and power, whether he was qualified to hold the office or not.
The killer entered his room at the Luxury Suites Hotel - Sacramento, a sister hotel of the one they’d stayed at in Houston and other cities around the country. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. First that long flight out from DC, followed by two presidential speaking engagements, a military base stopover, and that insufferably long ambulance ride. Tomorrow would be another exhausting day of meetings, all of which he attended as a background fixture.
All he wanted now was a hot shower and his bed. But something pulled at him from deep within, and even though it was still early evening, he knew he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight, not until he satisfied his inner demon. He knew without asking that his car would be waiting for him in the parking garage where his most valuable tool was safely locked away in the glove compartment.
∞∞∞∞
The Town Car pulled silently out of the hotel parking garage and turned right onto L Street. The security detail watching the executive motorcade didn’t question him. This wasn’t the first time they’d seen him drive his personal vehicle out of a hotel parking garage. They didn’t know where he went at night, and they knew better than to bother him.
Something urged him out of bed where he’d fallen into a fitful sleep. Images of dark alleys and dank surroundings stirred in his mind. Even with as sordid a childhood as he’d ha
d, and the many unsavory places his mother had dragged him to while servicing her customers, he didn’t recognize any of the images. They looked foreign and old to him, images from a past he knew he hadn’t lived and of places he knew he’d never been.
Yet they were all so familiar to him as if he’d walked these very streets, been inside these very buildings, and interacted with these people. He saw men and women dressed in Victorian-style attire and he heard voices speaking with old-style and cockney English accents. He could smell the decay of rotting vegetables and human feces on the streets. The aromas and noises from public houses assaulted his senses.
He was both appalled and excited by the sensations overwhelming him. He didn’t understand the conflicting emotions welling up inside him. It was as if he were two people, each one vying for control.
The Lincoln moved slowly west on L Street past the California State Capitol building and turned left on 10th Street. The capitol, an imposing marble structure that served as the seat for the California state government stood majestic in the night, solemnly lit by floodlights to accentuate its tall columns and recessed outer walkways. Silent this time of night, the capitol grounds reminded the killer of other monuments and public structures he’d visited late at night.
Turning east on N Street, the killer crossed 13th Street, passing Capitol Park on his left, and turned north on 15th to work his way around the park. He’d never seen a night so devoid of life in a city this large. Where were the working girls? Had the streets been cleared in preparation for the President’s visit? Although the hotel was located in the downtown area near the capitol building, he thought he might need to go deeper into the city to find the kind of woman he was looking for.
Was this going to be a good night for a kill? Everything about him said no, but something urging him from inside said yes.
Chapter Forty-Five
FBI Special Agent Lynn Keller looked up when Duncan Morris entered their third floor office of the headquarters building, Washington DC. He carried a brown case folder in his right hand and a cup of coffee in his left. She could tell from the Styrofoam cup that it was coffee from the break room, which meant there was no telling how old it was. Morris spotted Keller already sitting at her desk looking at him, her pen poised over a page where she’d been writing something in a case file.
“You see the news last night?” he asked without saying good morning or any other kind of friendly greeting.
Keller looked fresh and ready for the day, her business suit recently dry cleaned, her hair and makeup all in place. Morris on the other hand was his usual disheveled self. He wore the same suit and tie he’d worn all week, the coffee and food stains on his lapels accentuated by even more recent stains. Keller could tell he’d been drinking last night, his bloodshot eyes noticeable from across the room.
“Can’t say I did,” Keller answered. “I went home, ate a tuna fish sandwich, took a hot bath, poured myself a glass of wine, and went to bed. Why?”
Morris dropped the file folder on Keller’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Keller flipped open the cover to reveal the full color photograph of a murdered woman. Her ebony body had been found in a public restroom in Benjamin Banneker Park at 10th and G Streets, Southwest Washington DC. At the edge of the L’Enfant Promenade, Keller knew it to be a circular park with a fountain and a wonderful view of the Potomac River.
A peaceful and tranquil place, she remembered taking her daughter, Mazie, there many times to play when she was very young. The park, a memorial to Benjamin Banneker, the black man who assisted Andrew Ellicott in surveying the District of Colombia in 1791, served to remind the citizens of Washington DC that anyone can accomplish anything they set their mind to, regardless their race or social circumstances.
“Banneker Park,” Keller said. “Damn.”
Morris nodded.
“What you reckon the chances are that the only park in DC named after a black man just happens to be the chosen spot for a murder by a black man?”
“You’re assuming this is one of ours.”
“Damn right it’s one of ours,” Morris said. “Look at the date and time of death.”
Keller ran her finger down the page until she came to the information Morris indicated.
“Two days ago, approximately 12:40 a.m.,” Keller read aloud.
“Now look at the name.”
“Alice McKenzie,” Keller said. “So?”
Morris handed Keller another sheet of paper, this one the list of unconfirmed but suspected Jack the Ripper victims. He tapped a name on the list. Keller read the name and compared it to the murder file Morris had just given her.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Keller read the description of the Ripper victim and compared it to this most recent murder. The similarities were uncanny. Both women had been killed at approximately 12:40 a.m. and their bodies left if public parks, both women’s carotid arteries had been severed from left to right, and there were wounds to both of their abdomens. Another similarity stood out from both pages; both victims were black.
Keller noted the date.
“One day before George and Cooper left with the President to the west coast.”
“The sum'bitch kilt this woman then flew off across the country,” Morris said.
“So you do believe our killer is a member of the presidential party.”
“Looks like, at least until we get somethin' better to go on.”
“And George’s Jack the Ripper theory?” Keller asked. “Do you buy into his theory that the spirit of Jack the Ripper is somehow influencing his actions?”
“One thing at a time, Keller,” Morris said. “I don’t believe in the boogey-man. All I can say is them boys is in deep shit right up their elbows.”
“And there’s not one thing we can do about it.”
“Like hell,” Morris said. “There’s plenty we can do about it.”
“Such as?”
“You get on the phone and call the kid. Tell him what’s goin' on, and tell him and that red-headed kid to watch their asses.”
“Break security?”
“Damn right.”
“Truck is going to blow a gasket, not to mention Director Wheeling.”
“I can handle Truck and the other stuffed shirts,” Morris said. “You just do like I said.”
“It may be too soon. They may not have had a chance to identify a suspect yet. And how about the surveillance van? Our conversation might be intercepted. We might endanger them.”
“Can’t be helped. It’s still early out there so hopefully they won’t be listenin'. If the sum'bitch that killed these women is traveling with them, they need to know about this new murder. They might be able to find out somethin' there that can link him to this one.”
Keller looked at her watch. California was three hours behind them, which meant it was only a little after 5 a.m. on the west coast. She picked up her cell phone and dialed George’s number.
∞∞∞∞
George Benjamin was just reaching for his cell phone to text Keller when it rang. He picked it up and looked at the Caller ID to see who it was before answering it. He suspected it would be Toolie or someone on his staff calling to roust them out of bed. Instead, Keller’s name lit up the screen.
“LK?”
“George? Thank God I got hold of you.”
“LK, what are you doing calling me?” He wasn’t about to tell her he was just getting ready to text her.
“We’ve had a development.”
Benjamin heard Morris’ voice in the background.
“Is that the kid?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“I’m switching to Facetime, George.”
“Ok.”
Benjamin pressed the Facetime button on his iPhone and the image of Keller filled the screen. Keller propped her phone up on her desk so they could both talk to Benjamin.
&nb
sp; “You gonna give me the damn phone or not?” Benjamin heard Morris say to Keller.
“It’s on speaker,” Keller said. “All you have to do is talk.”
It wouldn’t do any good to explain to Morris what Facetime was. He wouldn’t understand.
Benjamin could see Morris standing over Keller waiting for her to hand him the phone. How a man as technically inept as Morris ever made it through an investigation was beyond his comprehension.
Finally, Morris spoke. “Kid?”
“Yes sir.”
“This is Morris.”
“Yes sir, I know. I can see you.”
“He knows who the hell you are,” Keller said. “If you’ll look at this screen and say something, he’ll hear and see you.”
“Smart ass,” Morris muttered. “You people and your damn fancy gadgets. Why the hell can’t you just use a normal telephone like everybody else?”
“You were saying you’ve had a development,” Benjamin prompted the senior agents. He knew the longer they stayed on the phone, the higher the chances were their call could be intercepted.
“Damn right we’ve had a development,” Morris said. “We’ve had another damn murder right here in DC.”
This news was perplexing to George. How could they have another murder in DC if the suspected killer was a member of the presidential party? Was it possible the President’s doctor wasn’t the killer? Had they pieced together the wrong information?
“But…”
“We just got it this morning,” Keller said before Morris could continue. “The date and time of death was two days ago, approximately 12:40 am.”
Benjamin calculated the information in his head. “That would make the time of death only a few hours before we left for the west coast.”
