by J. Fritschi
Mike grabbed the TV clicker from the bedside table and pointed it unsteadily at the television in the far corner of the room. When the sound and picture came on, there was a reporter talking with a pretty, professionally dressed brunette at a small table on the sidewalk in front of a café.
The reporter introduced the lady as Dr. Kate Wilson, Professor of Criminal Psychology at Stanford University.
“What type of person is a serial killer?” The reporter asked.
“Almost all serial killers have three things in common,” the professor explained. “They have some history of brain damage, mental illness and abuse. Most serial killers have a combination of two of the characteristics.”
“What is it about brain damage that causes people to murder?” the reporter inquired.
“There have been studies done on the brains of serial killers and all of them, without exception, showed damage to the frontal lobe which is the area responsible for controlling impulse and aggression. Because of the damage, the killers are not able to inhibit their impulses.”
“How is that different than mental illness?”
“Mental illness manifests itself in the form of voices and other delusions,” she explained with long fluttering eyelashes. “John Callinger reported hearing God’s voice telling him to kill his son and Ed Gingrich claimed that he was possessed by the devil, who told him his wife was trying to poison him, so he killed and disemboweled her. People with severe mental illness or psychosis can’t distinguish between the real world and the imagined.”
“What is it about abuse that causes these individuals to commit murders? You would think that if they didn’t like being abused, that they would not abuse others.”
Professor Wilson shifted in her tight fitting skirt. “People who have been abused either physically, and or sexually, live in fear and later in life that fear manifests itself in the form of anger. They take their anger out on their victims. They feel they have been victimized and they want to get even and this feeling empowers them.”
“What about killers such as Ted Bundy who don’t fit the profile of being abused or having brain damage or mental illness? How do criminal psychologists explain that phenomenon? Here was a good looking, well educated guy who was raised in a life of privilege. What causes him to commit murder?”
Dr. Wilson nodded her head as she waited anxiously to reply. “Ted Bundy was what we in criminal psychology refer to as a psychopath. Psychopaths are charming and manipulative and are emotionally devoid and detached from what they are doing. They have no fear, which is why they can pass lie detector tests. They are callous, egocentrics with illusions of grandeur.”
“What type of killer do you think the Sterling Killer is? What type of profile fits these killings the best?” the reporter asked wrapping up the interview.
Kate looked up and thought about it for a split second. “It seems as though he is taking his anger out on these women. Maybe he was abused as a child and is exacting his revenge on these helpless young ladies. Maybe someone at his church molested him which is why he is leaving the victims’ bodies to be found in churches and leaving the symbol on the church walls. Or he may be mentally ill and hears voices telling him to do it. One thing I do know is that when he is caught, he will have one of the three characteristics we discussed today.”
Mike clicked the TV off and reached over with a weak, trembling hand and gently removed the IV from the vein in his apposing forearm.
“What are you doing?” Big Pete asked stunned.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he replied as he began to pull the bandaging off his head.
“Hold on now,” Big Pete said excitedly as he approached Mike. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. The doctor says you need time to rest and recover.”
When the bandage was removed it revealed a shaved head with a long, jagged wound stitched on the lower back side of his head.
Axe watched with an uncertain eagerness, not knowing how to respond. Mike sat up in his bed feeling woozy as he spun around so that his legs were dangling above the floor.
“Help me up,” he said to Big Pete with determination in his eyes.
“Are you sure you are alright?” He clutched Mike by the bicep and helped him to his feet.
“The longer I stay in this bed, the weaker I get and the longer it will take me to recover,” Mike reasoned. “I’ve been in this bed too long already. Where are my clothes?”
“I brought you a change of clothes,” Big Pete assured him. “The clothes you were wearing were cut off of you.”
There was a soft rap on the door and the doctor entered the room wearing a white lab coat over his blue scrubs, his attention focused on Mike’s chart. When he glanced over the top of his bifocals and saw Mike standing in his hospital gown with Big Pete holding him by his arm, he stopped with a look of disbelief.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked befuddled as he looked at each of them sternly in the eyes. “This man needs to be getting rest. He has serious trauma to his brain.”
“I feel fine Doc,” Mike replied with a slight slur. “I’m going to go home and get some rest.”
“Your eyes are still dilated and your speech is slurred,” the doctor replied irritated. “We need to monitor your cerebral blood flow and the pressure within your skull to make sure further damage to the brain does not occur. Your brain needs time to recover. If you leave now, you could die.”
Those words hit home and everyone stood in stunned silence looking at each other for answers they did not have.
“I don’t have a choice,” Mike told the doctor. “We’ve got to catch the killer before he kills again.”
chapter 39
THE NEXT DAY Mike was back at The Oakland Police Department feeling like he had a bad hangover and his disposition wasn’t much better. He was wearing a knit cap to cover up his wound which throbbed with pain as he mentally prepared himself for the meeting with Captain Volger.
As he sat across the desk from the red faced, bulbous nosed captain, he listened to him calmly, yet sternly explain the pressure that was being applied on the entire department since the night the Sterling Killer assaulted him and murdered Denise. The Captain explained that the press was sensationalizing the murders in order to exploit the stories to sell more papers and that was resulting in a backlash of pressure from the public all the way to the Mayor and on down.
The Captain didn’t yell at him, which Mike thought he might and now wished that he would. It was like when he was a kid and got into trouble and would be expecting his dad to yell at him, but instead he would just shake his head with disappointment. Disappointment was worse than anger; it made Mike feel loathsome and miserable, like he let everyone down.
Mike sat in the leather chair across from the captain with his stripped knit hat on his shaven and scarred head feeling like a high school kid being busted by the principal. He knew he fucked up and wondered what the punishment would be, but more than anything, he just wanted to get out of the captain’s office so he could get back to work and find the killer.
When the captain was done, Mike stood from his chair and looked him straight in the eyes and assured him that nothing like this would happen again. The captain told him he knew that it wouldn’t because if it did, he would see to it that Mike wouldn’t work in homicide again. Mike didn’t think the threat was necessary, but he understood that the Captain was making a point and shuffled out of the room.
As Mike walked the sterile halls from the captain’s office to the homicide division, a few officers stopped and asked him how he was feeling and welcomed him back. Mike responded sheepishly that he was “fine” embarrassed that everyone was aware of his blunder and were probably mocking him behind his back. The thought of it all churned his gut with disgust. What a fucking “blow it” he was. He pushed open the swinging doors to the Homicide Division like a gunslinger with a scowl on his face and glared around the room daring anyone to make eye contact with him. No one so much as glance
d at him as he conspicuously made his way over to his desk and sat down.
He stared at a short stack of manila files that Big Pete left for him. One of the files contained articles about all three murders in chronological order while the other files contained official documents including police reports, autopsies and crime scene photos.
Mike flipped open the file with the articles and began reading the headlines:
Female Found Stabbed to Death in Oakland Church
No Clues Found in Brutal Stabbing
Serial Killer Stabs Second Victim
Ritualistic Serial Killer
Murder Weapon Sterling Silver Knife Shaped Like Cross
Murder Victims Disemboweled
Sterling Killer Assaults Detective Claims Third Victim
Oakland Homicide Detective in Coma
Sterling Killer Still on the Loose
There were more articles, all of which were having the effect of sending the public into an uproar. It was the worst killing spree in the Bay Area since the Zodiac Killer. Mike closed the file on the articles and tossed it to the side as he glared at the names on the other files. There on the top was Denise’s file. Mike let out a deep breath as he tried to prepare himself for what he was about to see.
Slowly he turned the cover of the file open and began to read the police report. Evidently the church janitor reported finding the body in the morning when he showed up for work. According to the autopsy, there were signs of penetration, but no biologicals. She was raped, but the killer didn’t leave any semen. She died from a fatal stab wound to the heart. Her body was found disemboweled.
Mike flipped the page and on top of a stack of crime scene photos was a startling black and white of Denise’s hollowed out cadaver. The look of loneliness and despair on her face made Mike feel like he was going to throw up. He looked up from the photo and glanced around blinking as he tried to compose himself. How the hell did he allow this to happen?
He bowed his head and gazed at the black and white photo trying to imagine what the last hours and minutes of Denise’s life were like. It must have been horrifying. She knew that she was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. Did she think about Mike and curse him for letting this happen? Did she blame him for leading the Sterling Killer to her? Would she be dead if Mike hadn’t shown up?
Mike thumbed through the photos of the crime scene with a sickening feeling in the bottom of his gut. Again, the Sterling Killer did not leave any evidence and the crime scene was immaculate. How did he do that? It was like he wasn’t even there. It was inexplicable.
Mike began to question his ability as a homicide detective. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit? Maybe all the years of drinking and doing drugs were taking their toll on his crime solving capabilities. When he was a Navy SEAL, he lived for challenges like this. It didn’t matter that the enemy wore civilian clothes in order to blend in and make it difficult to identify them. It was part of the rules of engagement and Mike didn’t get to make the rules. He worked around them.
The difference was when he would go into a village known as a terrorist stronghold he was on high alert in a confined area and knew generally who and what to look for. Now he was dealing with the City of Oakland, which is a much larger area, and there was no way to know who the killer was or what he looked like. The Sterling Killer was one man in a population of almost 450,000 people and they didn’t have any evidence, clues or suspects. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. It was like trying to find life on a distant planet. He didn’t know where to look or what he was looking for. Could he still do this? Did he still have the mental capacity necessary to solve a crime of this magnitude? Did the blow to his head cause irreparable damage to his brain?
And then he came to the last photo in the file of the symbol smeared on the wall in the victim’s blood. Mike examined the number 6 carefully, trying to interpret what the Sterling Killer was trying to tell him. If he could figure out what the symbol meant, he knew it would give him the answers he was looking for. It was staring him right in the face. What the fuck did it mean?
chapter 40
FATHER JOHN WAS allowing Mike time to recover before calling him and explaining what was happening in his dreams. It had been a couple of days since he saved Mike in his dream and he hoped that Mike was ready for what he was about to tell him.
Father John sat in his robe in an armchair in his father’s living room contemplating how he was going to explain his dreams of the murders in a way that Detective McCormick would understand and believe. He was acutely aware that his story of seeing the murders in his dreams through the eyes of the killer was going to be hard for the detective to believe.
Lifting the receiver from the black, rotary dial phone on the side table, he began dialing the Oakland Police department. After being transferred a few times a man with a gravely voice answered the phone.
“Detective McCormick,” Mike answered wearily. “How can I help you?”
“Good afternoon Detective. My name is Father John Carpenter. How are you feeling today?”
Mike rubbed his hand lightly over his knit covered head. “Better, I guess,” he said skeptically. “What can I do for you Father?”
“The question isn’t what can you do for me,” Father John corrected. “The question is what can I do to help you?”
Mike let out a long sigh. “No disrespect intended Father, but the last few days have not been good for me and I’m in no mood to solve your riddles.”
“You are the lead detective in the Sterling Killer case, are you not?”
“That’s correct.”
“I think I may have some information regarding the murders that you might find useful.”
“What type of information?” Mike asked as he sat up on the edge of his chair.
“What I am about to tell you may require you to suspend your disbelief,” Father John politely warned him.
“Try me,” Mike replied with an irritated tone. “I’ve been having dreams about the murders,” Father John explained. “I see the murders happening in my dreams.”
“Maybe you should stop watching so much TV and stop reading the newspapers.”
“You don’t understand Detective,” Father John corrected him calmly. “I don’t dream about the murders after the fact. I dream about the murders as they happen through the eyes of the killer.”
Mike pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with disgust. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
“I assure you that it is not bullshit,” Father John responded. “I have dreamt about all three of the murders as if I was the one doing the killing.”
“Why should I believe you? Do you know how many calls we get from people claiming they know who the killer is? What makes you any different from any of the other nut jobs who claim they are psychic?”
“I understand your skepticism Detective, but I know things that only the killer would know.”
“You’re going to have to do a better job of convincing me than that.”
“Have you figured out what the symbol means yet?”
Mike’s adrenaline spiked as his heart contracted. He pulled the knit hat off of his head and tossed it on his desk as he sat back in disbelief. “How do you know about the symbol? We haven’t released that to the press yet,” Mike stammered as he spun around in his chair and began snapping his fingers at Big Pete who was sitting at his desk intently working. “I’m sorry Father. Can I put you on hold for a minute?”
“Certainly,” Father John replied amenably.
Mike pushed the hold button and held the receiver to his chest as he looked at Big Pete with bulging eyes of amazement.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got a guy on the phone who claims that he sees the murders in his dreams,” Mike said under his breath as if what he was saying was so unbelievable that it shouldn’t be repeated. “He says his name is Father John.”
“Sounds like another whacko to me.�
� Big Pete replied confused. “What’s the big deal? Get rid of him.”
Mike shook his shaved head with a frown. “He knows about the symbol.”
Big Pete glared at Mike with a furrowed brow. “How the fuck does he know about the symbol?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Mike said definitively. “I’ve got him on hold. Put a trace on the call for me.”
“Right,” Big Pete confirmed as he lifted his headset and placed a call for a trace.
Mike took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. This could be the break he was looking for. He pressed the hold button and placed the receiver to his left ear, holding it in the crux of his shoulder. “Sorry to keep you waiting Father,” he said kindly, gripping a pen on paper with his right hand. “Tell me more about your dreams. What do you see in them?”
“In my dreams I am trapped in the killer’s mind listening to what he is thinking and watching as he rapes and then stabs the innocent young victims.”
“If you hear his thoughts, do you know why he is killing them?”
“I don’t know why he is killing them, but I do know that he is angry and blames them for making him kill them.”
Mike paused. This was too surreal. How the fuck could Father John know what the killer was thinking unless he was the killer. Was The Sterling Killer bold enough to call and taunt him and risk having the phone call traced or was it just another phony psychic?
“Why is he killing them with a sterling silver knife shaped like a cross?”
“I do not know. My dreams don’t begin until he has already kidnapped the women and has them tied up on the altar. All I see is the victims being raped, stabbed and disemboweled. My dreams end when I see the symbol smeared in the victims’ blood.”
“Do you know why he is smearing the symbol on the wall?” Mike asked earnestly. “Do you know what it means or what he is trying to tell us?”
“I believe it is some sort of satanic symbol.”
