by Jim Laughter
“That’s right,” Keller said.
“Has she been identified?”
Keller nodded and held the picture of the murdered woman in front of her phone so George could see it. The image both shocked and excited him.
“She’s black,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve not had a black victim. What makes you think she’s one of ours?”
“Her name was Alice McKenzie,” Keller said. She waited for George to recognize the name.
“Like from the list of unconfirmed Jack the Ripper victims?”
“That’s right,” Keller answered. “A black prostitute killed at the exact same time as the original victim and in the exact same manner. And her body was found in Banneker Park.”
“Banneker?” George asked. “The park named after the black surveyor?”
“Can’t be a coincidence,” Keller said.
Without warning, Morris’ face filled George’s phone screen. “You still in bed, kid?”
“It’s 5 a.m., sir,” George answered.
“Well, get your ass up and tell me what you and Woody Woodpecker have been doing.”
Benjamin drew in a deep breath and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. What indeed? They’d been kept totally isolated from any contact with anyone of importance and had not been able to question a soul except Jake about the other members of the motorcade. Yet by sheer dumb luck they may have discovered the identity of their serial killer.
“Well sir,” he began. “We’ve turned up one viable suspect for our killer. We can’t be sure yet because we’ve not had the opportunity to investigate in depth or get close to him, and you’re not going to believe who it is.”
Now he had both Keller and Morris’ attention.
“If we’re wrong and we accuse this man of murder, there’s going to be hell to pay,” Benjamin continued.
He went on to explain about the discrepancies with the Lincoln Town Car and how the owner had two identical models, one he kept at his home and other at Andrews Air Force Base. He told them that they’d seen the owner, a black man, but didn’t know his name.
The light in Benjamin’s room snapped on and Grundy Cooper stood in the doorway in only his pajama bottoms and no shirt. His red hair stood at odd angles as if he’d tossed and turned through the night. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
“Who are you talking to?” he yawned.
“Keller and Morris,” Benjamin answered.
“You called them? Are you nuts?”
“No I…”
“Shut up, Cooper!” Morris’ voice boomed from George’s phone.
Cooper crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside Benjamin so he could see the phone screen.
“Good morning, LK,” he said when he saw Keller’s face. He didn’t dare say anything to Morris.
“I’m gonna kick somebody’s ass if you two peckerwoods don’t start tellin' me what the hell’s goin' on out there,” Morris threatened.
“You said you have a viable lead,” Keller said to George.
“Yes ma’am,” he answered, then realized he’d stepped on Keller’s fetish again.
“And?”
“It’s very circumstantial, but we’ve uncovered evidence that leads to the killer as possibly being the personal physician of the President.”
“Doctor Williams!” Keller exclaimed. “Doctor John Williams, the White House physician?”
“You know this sum'bitch?” Morris asked Keller before Benjamin could respond.
Keller shook her head no. She didn’t know him but she knew who he was. Her father had been a member of the White House press corps so she’d made it a point to stay current on White House happenings.
“Then how the hell…”
“The White House physician is a matter of public record,” Keller said before Morris could finish his question.
“Is he black?” Morris asked.
“You really are ignorant, aren’t you Dunc?” Keller asked. “You don’t know one damn thing going on in the world, do you?”
“I don’t keep up with all that political shit,” Morris answered. “I’ve got enough trouble just keepin' my own affairs in order. Now answer my damn question. Is he black?”
Keller nodded.
“He’s black, he’s from Chicago, and he’s reclusive. He’s an old college friend of the President, which is what got him appointed White House physician. He keeps an office at the White House but also runs his own private practice here in DC.”
“Holy sheee-it,” Cooper drawled. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”
“What?” Benjamin asked the man sitting on the bed beside him.
“It was right there in front of me and I couldn’t see it.”
Now it was the other agent’s turn to remain silent.
“Don’t you see?” Cooper asked. “Don’t you see the connection?”
“You better start makin' some damn sense, Cooper, or I’m gonna tie a knot in your tail,” Morris said.
“Grundy,” Benjamin prompted. “What connection?”
“You remember the list of suspects Scotland Yard compiled of possible Jack the Ripper killers?”
George nodded.
“Doctor John Williams was the personal physician of Queen Victoria. He was a prime suspect of being Jack the Ripper but never charged with the Whitechapel murders. He maintained an office at Buckingham Palace, but he was also a surgeon at the Royal London Hospital.”
“Dear God in heaven,” Morris muttered.
“It was also rumored that he’d had an affair with a prostitute named Mary Kelly and had taken her on trips with him to Paris and other cities in Europe. One rumor says he even performed an abortion on her at the Royal London Hospital. Possibly even his own child.”
“Mary Kelly, the fifth Jack the Ripper victim?” Keller asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Cooper answered.
“Sweet Jesus,” Benjamin whispered.
Cooper continued.
“There’s a book out by a great-grandchild descendent of Mary Kelly that claims she found a locket belonging to Kelly with a picture of John Williams in it. They’d always thought it was Kelly’s late husband but it turned out to be an authentic picture of Queen Victoria’s doctor. I just can’t remember the title of the book.”
“That doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Morris said.
“No sir. But it does prove they knew each other. And why would a common prostitute have a picture of a highly-placed prominent doctor in a locket unless they had some kind of relationship?”
Keller leaned back in her chair. “Do you know what kind of shit storm this is going to cause if we’re right? We’ve got to proceed with extreme caution.”
She leaned in close to her cell phone.
“You boys have got to get close to Doctor Williams so you can keep an eye on him.”
“That’s going to be tough,” Benjamin said. “We’re not allowed anywhere near the President or his entourage. The doctor never leaves his side.”
“You’ve got to find a way,” Keller said.
Benjamin thought about their options. He wasn’t comfortable approaching Toolie just yet. He didn’t know where he stood with the motorcade supervisor.
“There might be one person we can trust.”
“Who?” Morris asked.
“I’d rather not say just yet,” George answered. “They could be monitoring this conversation. If so, I don’t want to give ourselves away. Besides, it may not work out.”
Keller reached for her phone.
“I’ll work up a file on Doctor Williams and see what we can learn from here. You boys be careful and call me if you find anything.”
“But what about the surveillance van?”
“Screw the surveillance van,” Morris said. “If that damn doctor is our man, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Nothing seemed out of place when Benjamin and Cooper reported for motorcade duty at 8 am. Toolie was his
normal cantankerous self, directing drivers and other staff personnel to get ready to pull out in fifteen minutes. George knew they weren’t due to pick up the presidential party until 9:30 a.m. at the Luxury Suites Hotel which was only a ten minute drive from the Holiday Inn. But Toolie always wanted to have the motorcade in place at least an hour before departure time.
Besides, it wasn’t unusual for times to change for security purposes, just in case a terrorist group knew their plans and lay in wait for the procession to pass a certain point at a certain time. Since the state capitol building was only a couple hundred yards away from the Luxury Suites Hotel, it would need to be a very organized attack.
The motorcade this morning, George learned, would not consist of all of the support vehicles. Instead, the only vehicles included would be the two presidential limos, their Suburban, the surveillance van, and the ambulance. All of the other vehicles were being marshalled back to Sacramento International Airport where they would be loaded onto the C-17s for departure later this afternoon. George assumed this would include Doctor Williams’ Town Car. He’d hoped to get a closer look at the car but knew that would be impossible now.
In the meantime, the President would meet with the governor and senior members of the state senate for talks about California’s failing economy. As in all things politic, blame would be laid at the feet of the previous republican administration, long and short-term solutions would be discussed, promises made, and political support assured. After four hours of high-level discussion, the same problems that prompted the presidential visit would remain in place and nothing would be any better than when they’d arrived.
The limited motorcade arrived at the Luxury Suites Hotel at exactly 8:30 a.m. and parked in the main hotel guest arrival zone with The Beast immediately in front of the main doors. Secret Service personnel were already posted at the front entrance where Benjamin suspected they’d been all night. He also knew the lobby would have one or two agents posted in it as would the hallway of the presidential floor.
Benjamin and Cooper, along with Jake, stayed in their vehicle immediately behind The Beast. They watched while Secret Service agents stopped guests entering the hotel and scanned them with hand-held metal detectors. Nothing was left to chance with this President.
At exactly 9:30, Secret Service agents emerged from the hotel and formed a corridor from the door to The Beast. A moment later, the President emerged from the hotel and entered the limousine. After the President was secure, another group of five people whom Benjamin assumed was his support staff, descended the steps and climbed into the second limo.
Just as the motorcade pulled away, another person exited. It was Dr. Williams. Instead of getting into either limousine or the ambulance, he turned and faced the capitol building only a couple of blocks away. Without saying a word to anyone, he stuck his hands into his pants pockets and ambled up the sidewalk toward the State Capitol building—alone.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lynn Keller’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and saw George Benjamin’s name on the screen. She also looked at the time and noted that it was 5:30 pm, which meant it was 2:30 pm on the west coast.
“George?” she answered.
“LK?”
“What’s up, George? Why are you calling?”
“I’ve only got a minute, LK,” George said. “I was just calling to see what you learned about Dr. Williams.”
“He’s as much of a mystery now as ever,” Keller said. “From what I can find, he graduated from Colombia University as well as medical school with top honors. He’s not only a general practitioner, he’s also one of the leading cardiovascular surgeons in the country. After med school and his internship at the University of Chicago Medical Center, he stayed on staff and eventually became their chief cardio-surgeon.”
“That it?” George asked.
“No, my research shows that Dr. Williams became close friends with a certain foreign exchange student at Colombia and stayed in contact with him through the years there in Chicago. When this student’s father needed heart surgery, Dr. Williams traveled to Kenya and performed the operation.”
“Student? What student?”
“You know him better as the President of the United States.”
Given the twists and turns this case had taken the last couple of weeks, George wasn’t overly surprised by this news. He’d heard the accusations by the ultra-right wing talk show hosts and other nut balls that the President wasn’t a natural born U.S. citizen and wasn’t qualified to serve as President, but he discounted the naysayers and conspiracy theorists on face value alone.
“After the surgery,” Keller continued, “Dr. Williams was appointed White House Physician and moved his practice to DC. He bought a home here, opened a private clinic specializing in cardio rehabilitation, and also works out of the White House. He travels with the President on all of his cross-country trips.”
At that moment, Toolie called for everyone to board the C-17 for the flight back to DC.
“I’ve got to go, LK,” George said. “They’re boarding the plane now.”
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Did you see the news this afternoon?”
“No, why?”
“The Sacramento police found a murdered prostitute on a stairwell landing in a downtown alley about an hour ago.”
“Damn,” George muttered, then remembered his self-imposed ban on profanity.
“We called the Sacramento PD to get the details.”
“And?”
“This one was really brutal,” Keller said. “One of the worse yet.”
“How so?”
“The killer stabbed her thirty-nine times in the body and neck, including nine times in the throat, five in the left lung, two in the right, one in the heart, five in the liver, two in the spleen, and six in the stomach and lower abdomen. He also mutilated her genitals. She was found lying on her back with her clothing raised to her middle, exposing her lower half, which indicated the body lay in a sexual position. It hasn’t been determined if she’d had sexual intercourse or not but you really can’t tell with prostitutes.”
“Did they give an estimated time of death?”
“According to the preliminary coroner report, it was sometime between 2 and 3 this morning.”
“But he stabbed her in her throat instead of cutting it?”
“According to the Sacramento PD.”
George considered this upsetting news. Was it possible Dr. Williams had left the hotel after midnight, killed this woman, cleaned his car, and returned to the hotel without anyone noticing? Was it possible his murder weapon could be stashed in the Town Car? If he’d driven his car, would he have checked it out through the valet, or would he have retrieved it from the parking garage himself? He knew he’d have to find a way to question the security detail guarding the primary motorcade vehicles.
“One more thing,” Keller said.
“Yes?”
“Her name was Martha Tabram.”
The name resonated with Benjamin.
“From the Jack the Ripper list?”
“From the Jack the Ripper list,” Keller confirmed.
“If memory serves, the description you just read to me of her death mirrors that of Martha Tabram in London in 1876.”
“Mirrors it exactly,” Keller said. “It’s as if the actual Jack the Ripper killed her again.”
“How could our killer know those kinds of details?” Benjamin asked. “How could he know her name and the details of her death if he’s not being influenced by the spirit of Jack the Ripper?”
“Beats the hell out of me, George.”
“What does Agent Morris think about it?”
“He’s in Truck’s office right now talking to him about it,” Keller answered. “I have a feeling all hell is going to break loose here over the next couple of days.”
Benjamin heard Toolie call his name and saw the large man wave him toward the C-17. He
hoped the doctor’s Town Car had already been loaded onto the aircraft, because come hell or high water, he was determined to find a way to get a close look at it during the flight. He had the sneaking suspicion he was going to have to break security and take Toolie into their confidence and expose their undercover status.
∞∞∞∞
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Truck said to Morris sitting across the desk from him. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Hell yes I know what I’m sayin',” Morris said.
“Then you know damn well you can’t roll up to Air Force One and arrest the President’s doctor when he comes down the stairs!”
“I’m tellin' you, Lew,” Morris returned, “we’ve got good circumstantial evidence that Dr. John Williams is the sum'bitch killin' these women all across this damn country.”
“And that’s all you’ve got, circumstantial evidence!”
“He’s flyin' around this damn country cuttin' up women, and he’s doin' it at taxpayer expense!”
“There’s not a chance in hell any judge in this city is going to issue a warrant based on the evidence your team has gathered,” Truck said. “And we sure as hell can’t storm the White House and accuse this man of murder.”
Morris stood up and leaned on his fists on Truck’s desk, fire in his eyes.
“That sum'bitch is on Air Force One this very minute, and he’s leavin' another butchered woman in his wake. You seen the pictures. How the hell can you sit there and tell me I can’t pursue this suspect?”
Truck leaned back in his chair. He didn’t like this situation any more than Morris but he understood Washington politics. He knew FBI Director Wheeling would never approve a direct action against the doctor. To accuse the President’s personal physician of murder on evidence this flimsy, especially if it turned out to be unfounded, would be career suicide.
“Agents Benjamin and Cooper are also on their way back to DC, right?” Truck asked.
Morris nodded but didn’t answer. He knew what the bureau chief was going to say and he didn’t want to make some stupid remark that would get him into hotter water.
