A Killer in Time

by Jim Laughter

  “We believe the murder weapon used to kill her is somewhere in that car,” Keller said. “And it’s quite possible the same weapon was used to kill a number of other women. Surely you can see we need to get inside that car.”

  The conviction in her voice convinced the colonel that she was serious in her accusation that the chief physician of the President was a killer.

  The colonel examined the document one last time and nodded. The thought that a hanger on his base could be used to house a vehicle involved in the murder of women was reprehensible to him. He handed the warrant to Keller and turned to the captain.

  “We’ll need a security escort to Hanger 1, Captain.”

  “Yes sir. You’re going along, sir?” the captain asked.

  “Damn right I’m going along,” the colonel answered.

  He thought about the doctor and how he’d been granted unrestricted access to his base and was allowed to enter the hanger any time he wanted to. He’d often wondered why the doctor would arrive at the hanger in one car then leave in an exact duplicate, only to return the second car hours later all clean and shiny. And he hated the fact that he and none of his base personnel were allowed entry into the hanger except when Air Force One was either leaving on or returning from a trip.

  What’s more, he hated the doctor and his snobbery, his holier-than-thou stuck up attitude and air of superiority.

  If this son of a bitch really is a serial killer, I’ll be only too happy to help the FBI nail his ass to a tree.

  ∞∞∞∞

  Hanger 1 was ablaze with lights when the security escort arrived, followed by the FBI investigators, forensics team, the colonel’s staff car, and the tow truck. Secret Service agents stationed at the massive hangers doors blocked their entrance, protective of the executive aircraft stored inside along with the motorcade vehicles. Benjamin recognized Toolie talking to an agent that appeared to be in charge. He’d called Toolie before leaving their office, so he assumed the motorcade supervisor would have explained to them by now that they were coming with a warrant to search the doctor’s car.

  The base commander exited his staff car, and along with Morris and Keller, approached Toolie and the agent in charge. Keller carried the warrant in her hand.

  “I’m sorry sir,” the agent said when the colonel and the agents reached him. “But I can’t allow you entrance into this hanger.”

  Keller handed the warrant to the agent.

  “This is a search warrant issued by a federal judge authorizing us to search a black Lincoln Town Car owned by Dr. John Williams. That vehicle is stored in this hanger and may hold evidence of multiple murders.”

  The agent looked the document over. After a short while he handed it back to Keller.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, “that’s exactly what it says.”

  “Then get your ass out’ta our way,” Morris said.

  The agent didn’t move. “Can’t do it, sir.”

  “What the hell do you mean you can’t do it?”

  “I can’t grant you entrance, sir,” the agent answered. “No one is allowed inside this hanger with the President’s aircraft without proper security clearance.”

  The base commander stepped forward and showed his security badge to the agent.

  “Son, this is my base and my hanger. I’m damn sure authorized entry.”

  “Sorry sir,” the agent answered. “Even that’s not good enough. The only way you people are getting into this hanger is with clearance from the chief of security at the White House.”

  Morris couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He sure as hell hadn’t come all the way across town to search a vehicle only to be turned away by some smug peckerwood in a cheap suit.

  “Boy, you don’t seem to understand the meaning of a federal warrant,” Morris said. “You best step aside and let us do our jobs or you’re gonna find a knot tied in your tail too tight to unravel.”

  “Sir?” It was Benjamin. No one had heard him approach. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Morris spun around on his heels and stopped face to face with Benjamin.

  “Damn, you’re quiet,” he said.

  “Yes sir.”

  Morris looked the young agent over from head to toe. How the hell could he remain so neat and his clothes so unwrinkled even after a day like today? Keller, Toolie, the colonel, and the Secret Service agent all waited for Benjamin to speak. Morris had ordered Cooper to remain in the Crown Victoria and stay the hell out of his way.

  “Well rook,” Morris said. “If you’ve got an idea, spit it out!”

  Benjamin turned to the agent in charge.

  “Sir, since we can’t get inside, do you suppose the car could be removed from the hanger and brought out here?”

  “We could if we had a key,” the agent answered. “But the agent responsible for driving it on and off the aircraft is already off duty.”

  “Sir,” Benjamin said, “if we could hook on to it with our tow truck, we could pull it out here onto the tarmac and search it. Chances are we’re going to have to impound the vehicle anyway.”

  “I don’t have anyone here that can hook it up,” the agent answered. “And you people aren’t authorized inside this hanger.”

  “I am,” Toolie said. “I’m authorized inside this hanger any damn time I wanna be here, and I can sure as hell drive a tow truck and hook up that damn car.”

  Keller reached out and took the warrant from the agent’s hand.

  “How about it, agent?” she said. “Help us catch a killer before he gets away, or worse, before he kills again.”

  This time Keller could see the resignation in the agent’s eyes. He was going to help although it meant going against orders and regulations. He keyed a transmitter he held concealed in his left hand and spoke into it.

  “Open the hanger door.”

  After a moment, the enormous hanger doors began to move, splitting in the center, gliding along a set of rails inset into the concrete hanger floor. Light poured out of the hanger and revealed Air Force One. Parked on the left side of the cavernous space were the motorcade vehicles, among them a black Lincoln Town Car.

  “Mr. Toolie,” Benjamin said, “you can hook it up now.”

  Toolie turned toward the tow truck idling behind the other FBI vehicles.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the agent interjected. Toolie stopped mid-stride.

  “Sir?” Benjamin asked.

  “Go ahead and take your team inside.”

  “But what about your regulations?”

  “To hell with the regulations. That car’s not an official motorcade vehicle. I’m sick of looking at the damn thing anyhow. Just stay clear of the aircraft.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now we’re talkin',” Morris said. He turned and waved at the forensics team and motioned for them to proceed to the Town Car.

  “You know we don’t have a key to let you into the car,” the agent said.

  “Won’t be the first window I’ve busted,” Morris said with a smile.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  This is it, my final moments. The wolf is at the door and my whole world is crashing around me. He’s going to huff, and he’s going to puff, and he’s going to blow my house down.

  Doctor John Williams sat at the desk in his private second-floor White House office. He’d told the nurse at the duty station he didn’t want to be disturbed until it was time for the President’s checkup.

  He’d locked his office door and broken his key off in the lock. Knowing his time was nearly up, he also barred the door by jamming a straight-back chair under the handles. He hated the thought of the beautiful French doors being shattered under the force of government agents kicking them in but he had to buy time somehow.

  He opened the heavy drapes covering diamond paned windows to let in the sunlight. How many times, he wondered, had he gazed out this window overlooking the south lawn and across Constitution Avenue. The Washington Monument rose skyward like the majestic obelisk
its designers meant it to be, a testament to the greatness of men. This magnificent city of unsurpassed beauty and history, a place that holds the hopes and dreams of a people that want to live free. He thought about the great men and women that with lofty ideals had shaped a new nation from a hostile wilderness from this very city; from this very house.

  When he’d been invited to serve as the President’s physician, he too had hoped to make a difference. Have I? Have I made a difference? Is there another little boy out there somewhere that won’t suffer the pain and humiliation I suffered? Is there hope for some other kid whose mother was a whore and I’ve helped save him from untold misery? Has my life been a beacon of light for anyone, or have I been ruled by the dark presence that inhabits my innermost being?

  Risen from the slums of Chicago to the opulence of the nation’s executive mansion, he looked around and envisioned the many people, important people, he’d treated in this very room. He was the primary health care provider for the most powerful man in the world. He’d treated dignitaries from around the globe and even foreign royalty. Countless people that visited the White House every year were his responsibility should anything happen to them while on the property. He held life and death in his hands. Now it would be only a matter of minutes before he’d learn the true meaning of both.

  “They’re coming,” he spoke aloud to no one in the room. “After all these years, they are finally coming.”

  He’d called his clinic this morning to tell his receptionist he’d be a little late coming in. He’d planned to go to Andrews to remove his knife from the glove compartment and his bloody clothes from beneath the spare tire in the trunk of the Town Car before going to the White House. It was normal procedure for the President to have a physical checkup after returning from a trip, then he had a cardio-consultation scheduled with a senator from Oklahoma at the clinic in the afternoon.

  His receptionist sounded panicked.

  “The FBI is here searching the clinic and they have a warrant for your arrest. They’ve chained the door shut, are impounding all of our files, and even disconnected the office computers. Is anything wrong, Doctor?” She said she’d heard one of the agents mention they’d impounded his car.

  So instead of going to Andrews, he’d driven directly to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue where he’d been waved in by Louis Teague, the same old guard that always seemed to be on duty at the west gate. He didn’t know the name of the Marine standing his post at the west entrance to the executive mansion, and he didn’t care as long as he didn’t accost him again.

  The doctor startled when he heard the sound of sirens approaching the White House. Emergency vehicles in Washington DC was nothing new. A day never passed that someone somewhere in the district wasn’t getting themselves shot, stabbed, or mugged. Besides being a city filled with history, it is also a city where crime, corruption, and politics work hand-in-hand. The sirens could just as easily pass on by, but he knew deep down inside himself that they were coming for him. It wouldn’t be long now.

  A commotion in the hallway outside his office shook him from his thoughts. He heard voices yelling up and down the hall and the sounds of men and women in his outer office. He heard the gruff voice of a man tell someone, probably his receptionist that he was from the FBI and had a warrant for the arrest of Dr. John Williams.

  Other voices that he assumed was White House security joined in the chaos but he knew it was only a matter of seconds before someone would coax his office key away from the receptionist. With the door lock jammed with his broken key and the handles blocked with a chair, they’d be forced to break it down.

  Standing up from his desk, the doctor made his way slowly to his private bathroom. A marble countertop with a set of double sinks stretched out below a spotless extra-wide mirror lit all around by vanity lights.

  He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Instead of seeing himself, he saw his mother staring back at him, her slim, ebony naked body covered in blood, her throat only a gaping slit with the last remnants of her life seeping out.

  His vision cleared and he saw his own reflection. How has it come to this? How have I risen from the slums of Chicago to this lofty position of respect and responsibility only to have it end with arrest and life in prison? Why does the vision of my neglectful whoring mother haunt my dreams? Why am I afraid of shadows? What is this power living inside of me, driving me to kill her over and over again?

  He heard his outer office door rattle. Someone was trying to get in. The same gruff voice called out.

  “Doctor Williams, this is FBI Special Agent Duncan Morris. We have a warrant for your arrest. Open the door, Doctor. Don’t make us break it down.”

  Again he looked into the mirror. Only this time he didn’t see his reflection. Instead, strange eyes looked back at him that he’d never seen before, yet they were somehow so familiar. He felt something move inside of him, the same something he’d felt so many times before. And he heard the same voice that had spoken to him in those dark places, a voice telling him to kill.

  Removing his necktie, he laid it across the back of one of the vanity chairs. He loosened the buttons on his shirt and pulled his collar back to expose his throat. He reached into his right lab coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around a scalpel he’d placed there earlier.

  The scalpel felt familiar in his hand. It was as if he could still feel his mother in his arms the day he’d ended her miserable life with a similar instrument. He’d come full circle. There was no going back.

  He could feel her lustful, gyrating body against his, and he could smell the stench of sex and drugs and alcohol emitting from her, offending his olfactory senses. The image of a frog he’d dissected in school flooded his memory as he turned the scalpel over in his hand.

  The tips of his fingers tingled when he remembered the texture of his knife handle every time he cut some sluts throat or disemboweled some whore in a back alley. Visions of dark places invaded his consciousness and he heard the bawdy laughter of people in English pubs. He saw the man that had haunted his dreams his whole life; a dark and sinister man in a cape and top hat. He felt the strange stirring force inside him again. He heard the same voice speak to him from out of the past—Kill!

  “Doctor Williams, open up!” another voice from the outer office called again. “This is the FBI. We have a warrant for your arrest!”

  The doctor grabbed hold of the edge of the countertop with his left hand. Then with his right hand, he plunged the scalpel into the left side of his throat. With the precision only a surgeon possesses, he drew it left to right, severing his carotid artery and windpipe. He gasped for breath but couldn’t find it.

  The instrument fell from his hand and clamored into the marble sink. Bright red ribbons of oxygen rich blood gushed from the open wound with every beat of his heart. He grabbed hold of the faucet handles, holding on with all the waning strength he could muster. His unsteady grasp caused one of the faucets to open and release a torrent of water into the sink, splashing bloody water onto him and soaking him with the discards of his own life.

  Refusing to fall, he pulled himself in close to the mirror so he could look into his eyes like he’d done with so many people before. They’d begun to blur but he had to know. He had to see if his spirit would leave his body. He had to know if he would pass from one life to another.

  Is there a God? This is the question I asked my mother and so many of my victims. Now it’s my turn to learn the answer. Will God be there to meet me? If I have a soul, what will become of it? Is there a heaven and hell, or is there only eternal darkness waiting for me?

  It only took a few seconds before his brain became deprived of blood and oxygen. He felt his strength give out but not before he saw a sparkle in his eyes.

  Is that it? Is that my soul? Is this my essence passing from one reality to the next? Am I about to meet God?

  As if in slow motion, he released his hold on the faucets. His knees buckled and he slumped to the floor. He heard a crash from the
outer office with the breaking of glass as someone broke down the French doors and started yelling his name.

  “Doctor Williams! Doctor Williams, where are you?”

  The force that had driven him for so long spoke to him one final time.

  “My name is Jack.”

  Epilogue

  FBI agents Morris, Keller, Benjamin, and Cooper returned to their third floor office in the Washington headquarters building. It was late, well past midnight.

  Everyone was exhausted from the events of the day. They’d solved one of the most heinous serial killer cases in recent history, yet they all felt a deep dissatisfaction that they’d not been able to make an arrest or bring the killer to justice. Instead, he’d taken the coward’s way out and killed himself.

  Waiting for them in the room was Bureau Chief Lewellen Truck and Director of the FBI Carson Wheeling. They sat at a table in the middle of the room, a bottle of Jim Beam Ghost White whiskey on the table between them. When Morris saw them he said, “You assholes have been in my desk.”

  Wheeling poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and slid it across the table to Morris.

  “Rough day?”

  Morris picked up the glass and threw the whole shot down his throat in one swift motion. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “What the hell are you two bureaucrats doin' here this time’a night?”

  Director Wheeling stood and circled the table until he stood directly in front of Morris. He reached out to shake Morris’ hand.

  “You and your team did a hell of a job on this investigation.”

  Morris didn’t answer. He was too tired to care. All he wanted to do was go home to his empty apartment in Triangle Park and sleep for a week.

  Wheeling turned to Keller, Benjamin, and Cooper who still stood just inside the door. He approached the trio and shook their hands, telling each one what a wonderful job they’d done.

  “That information you men provided about the President’s Secret Service detachment and their hookers is going to raise a real stink for his administration.”