GHOST_4_Kindle_V2

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  “I can come back.” She tried to duck away.

  “Here. Now.”

  Rezvani trudged sideways into the room full of computers. “Bad news from Shreveport, I take it?”

  “How’d he do it?” Barnes demanded.

  “How did who do what, Sir?” Rez asked.

  “You don’t wear stupid well,” Barnes said.

  “And you don’t wear vague well, Sir,” Rez fired back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your boy,” he said. “Your consultant, Phil Spector.”

  “John Spector,” Rez corrected.

  “John, Paul, George, or Ringo, I don’t care. How in the great cauldron of Hades did Spector get in to see Graziano before our team?”

  “I told you,” Rez said. “He has connections higher up.”

  “Connections, Agent Rezvani? Like who? Scotty on the Enterprise?” Barnes’ face purpled.

  “I…I uh,” Rez stammered.

  “I called in a favor,” Barnes explained. “Our team choppered straight to Eglin Air Force Base where a twin-turbofan C-21 was already fueled and waiting. They landed in Shreveport within two hours. They were at Graziano’s door twenty minutes later—and your man Spector had already been and gone.”

  “That’s not possible, Sir,” Rez said. “Spector was in town when I spoke to him, and that was two hours after our team left.”

  “Maybe he was already en route,” Barnes said. “Maybe he lied about where he was. Whatever, but he got there first.”

  “He didn’t…uh. He didn’t mess anything up, did he?”

  Barnes shook his head. “But you already know something, don’t you? And may I remind you, Agent Rezvani: if you withhold any information—”

  “I know, Sir,” she said. “Graziano’s the victim’s father.”

  “Great Scott!” Barnes exclaimed. “Spector got a DNA test done that fast?”

  Rez didn’t answer directly. “Graziano is the victim’s father. Her name is Erica Graziano, and she was taken from the family when she was five years old.”

  That stopped Deputy Director Barnes short. His jaw snapped shut with an audible click. Rez told him everything Spector had shared.

  “This changes the entire span of the investigation,” Barnes said. He cursed inventively. “You know what this means?”

  “It means that the FBI gave up,” Rez said. “It means that somewhere between twelve and eighteen women were held captive, likely tortured, and then murdered on our watch.”

  Barnes cursed again. This time something about Director Peluso giving birth to several unlikely things.

  Then, Agent Rezvani told him about the murder weapon. “That’s impossible,” Barnes replied. “We had experts, we scoured every journal, every database.”

  “Spector’s source is better,” Rez said. She didn’t know if that were true or not, but so far, Ghost’s resources had proved incredibly accurate.

  After an invective related to the improper treatment of circus animals, Barnes stormed to his feet. “This is unbelievable!” he thundered, casting around the command center. “Couldn’t happen at worse possible timing. Where is it? Where is it?” Then, he darted toward a flatbed scanner. “Here. Here it is.” He handed a newspaper to Agent Rezvani. “Go ahead, read the headline.”

  It was the Miami Herald, and Rez noted it was today’s edition. She read the headline: The Wait May Be Over. The photo showed several hundred protesters, some looking strangely overjoyed. Then she read the caption and understood at last: Pro Life organizers march outside of the Supreme Court where in just a few days the landmark abortion ruling Roe v. Wade is expected to be overturned.

  “See what I mean?” Barnes grumbled. “Sweet mother, this is going to stir them up. I can hear Senator Esperanzo now.”

  “What do you mean?” Rez asked.

  “He’s already must-see-TV,” Barnes said. “He’s leading the Dems in the polls by close to thirty percent. That’s unheard of.”

  “So?”

  “So, Esperanzo is Pro Life,” Barnes said as if the phrase was unpleasant. “If he gets wind of Smiling Jack and the abortion knife—and somehow I think he will—he’ll shine a ten-thousand watt spotlight on it. He’ll blame the FBI’s failures on the current administration. But it’ll come back on us.”

  Agent Rezvani left the command center feeling sick to her stomach. Four years, she thought. Four years between killing cycles. Her mind reeled, even as she sat at her computer and began her search. She typed: Presidential Candidates and Elections to Present.

  Chapter 28

  “Restroom, please!” I gasped, holding my hand at an angle so that, hopefully the woman behind the counter couldn’t see my face. The condition I was in, one look and she’d probably call an ambulance…or the police.

  “Sir, the restrooms here are for paying…” She stopped that line of thought. “Oh, mannn, uh…yeah, it’s back there behind the chip rack. Use the second door. The men’s sign is too faded to see.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, hurrying around a tall wireframe rack of gourmet potato chips. I stumbled into the second door on the right and heard a shrill sound that wasn’t quite a scream but more of a startled squeak.

  A wide-eyed brunette, twenties, maybe a college student stared at me. Then she glared at me. “Uhm, wrong room!” she said. “Duh.”

  Out I went. I must have been completely waxed from the surge. I’d gone in the first door on the right. The Ladies Room. This time, I made sure. I saw the faint, faded stencil of the word MEN, and ducked into the room. The door had a latch lock. I rattled it into place and went to the sink. I smacked cold water on and glanced into the mirror. I found myself looking at a Hollywood zombie version of my face. The skin sagged horribly and capillaries had burst all over, streaking my flesh with jagged streaks of crimson lightning. Both eyes were dilated, and the whites were bloodied. I’d pushed myself too hard for too long.

  What I really needed was a shower or a submersion, a proper resetting. But I needed to make do. I cupped my hands under the flowing cold water and splashed it all over my face, my neck, my bare arms. The first dousing vanished as my flesh absorbed the resiliency-giving water and began to rebuild. The feeling was like knobby cables untangling beneath my skin, spreading into something linear and smooth. My eyes stung, but I knew that to be a good thing: a cleansing of contaminated blood, a clearing of visible imperfections. Again and again, I splashed myself. I didn’t care how soaked my shirt and cargo shorts became.

  Finally, I stoppered the sink and let it fill. I bent at the waist and plunged my face in, ten-twenty seconds at a time. I repeated the dunking once, twice, a third time. Then, I gasped for air. I breathed deeply, slowing down a bit between each breath, letting my heart rate return to normal. When I looked into the mirror again, I found that I could pass for normal again. Sixty-hour work week, anxiety-ridden, three hours of sleep a night—normal, but good enough.

  “Thank you, so much,” I told the woman behind the counter. I slapped a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “I need a computer code and the biggest mug of the best coffee you’ve got. And please, keep the change.”

  The woman blinked at the bill and then back at me. “Are you kidding?” she asked. “That’s like eighty dollars change.”

  “Please,” I said. “It’s the least I can do. I kind of splashed a lot of water in the restroom.”

  “Oh,” she said. She eyed me more closely. “You okay?”

  I nodded. Then, I made a show of sniffing the air. “I’ll be even better when I get some of whatever smells so good.”

  She laughed, and slid me a tiny slip of paper. “Here’s the internet code,” she said. “I’ll get your coffee.”

  I wandered over to a computer and slid into the chair. I exhaled, and it seemed a lifetime of exhaustion flowed away into the air with that breath. The waitress—or was she a barista? Serving girl, hostess, bartender, shopkeep? It was an Internet Cafe, and they served coffee. So I had no idea what to call her. All I know is she b
rought me a massive, steaming mug of coffee.

  “You have no idea how much this means to me,” I said, closing my eyes and inhaling the aromatic blend of Costa Rican coffee beans, almondine, and cacao.

  “Been traveling?” she asked. “Long road?”

  “Six hundred miles,” I muttered, taking my first sip of brown paradise. “Mmmm, this makes it worth it.”

  “There anything else I can get you?” she asked.

  I opened my eyes from the coffee-induced euphoria. I finally figured out what to call her: Melanie. Her name tag said so. “You’ve already done me a service I will never be able to repay.” She laughed. I wasn’t joking. “But, if you’ll bring me another mug of this…this heavenly nectar…say, every half hour, I will most assuredly leave you a tip that will make your day.”

  “You don’t need to leave any tip,” she said. “Your last one already made my day.” Melanie laughed again, a musical, trilling giggle that reminded me of how important my mission was…how precious these people are.

  As she walked away, I used the cafe’s code to login to the computer. It was a high-end Mac, and it was fast. Since I didn’t have my silver case and the splendid drives within, I needed all the speed I could get. I wouldn’t have access to law enforcement files. I wouldn’t be able to break down firewalls. I’d have to search this out the way everyone else did.

  “Browser,” I muttered, “looks like it’s just me and you.” I began searching child abductions in the Shreveport area in and around the time Erica Graziano had been taken. Then I began sifting the results for anything meaningful. It wasn’t a needle in a haystack, but it was close. I hoped Agent Rezvani was having better luck.

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Agent Rezvani was sitting in Doc Shepherd’s office when he arrived early in the morning. “Well…uh, hello,” he said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “When the nurses told me an FBI agent was in my office, I was kind of expecting someone else.”

  “Spector?” Rez asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m Special Agent Deanna Rezvani,” she said. “But, ah…Spector’s not with the FBI,” Rez said.

  “Not FBI either,” he said. “I found out the other day he wasn’t local law. You know, Agent Rezvani, I don’t much appreciate being lied to.”

  “Spector wasn’t lying,” Rez said. “At least not in the sense you mean it.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” Shepherd said, his tone still pleasant. He parked behind his desk and folded his hands. “Mr. Spector flashed a badge and let on as if he were some kind of official investigator.”

  “He is,” Rezvani explained. “Just not FBI. He’s higher up than that. Heck, he’s at a clearance level I’ve never encountered before. If he misled you, you can be certain that it is because he is not permitted to reveal certain details about his occupation.”

  Doctor Shepherd leaned back a few inches and twirled his mustache. “Spector’s above your pay grade?”

  “Far above.”

  “Now, that’s a stitch of a different color,” he said, a twinkle in his ice-blue eyes, “And, I must confess I am glad to hear that. Very glad. I’ve always felt I was a good judge of character. Spector seemed like an honorable man, but I thought he’d put one over on me. You’ve done me a service, Agent Rezvani, and I appreciate it. If you ever need a heart procedure, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  Rez paused. “Uhm, hopefully that won’t be necessary, but if I do, I’ll remember you.”

  “That’s fair. Now, why have you come to see me, Agent? Are you working the case of the young woman murdered recently, a series of killings, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Spector and I were—are—working together on it. Have you heard of the Smiling Jack killings?”

  “Smiling Jack,” he said, nodding wistfully. “Spector named the case for me, and I’ve followed it some. The Bureau declared it a hoax, but Spector said it was real.”

  Agent Rezvani frowned. “We had no physical evidence,” she said. “We had no missing person’s reports. No one identified the alleged victims. All we had were photographs. I’m quoting the party line, you understand. Truth is, we never should have closed the case.”

  “The young woman at Fort Pickens?” Doc Shepherd asked. “She was in those awful photographs?”

  “She was,” Rezvani said. “And now that we have a body to match with the photos, the Bureau is putting all its muscle into catching the killers. And that’s why I’ve come to you.”

  “The weapon,” he said.

  “Spector said you have special insight about the knife. It’s surgical, turn of the century.”

  “Not what I would call surgical,” Shepherd corrected. “It was used for abortions. Cain’s Dagger, it was called. Do you understand the reference?”

  Agent Rezvani vaguely remembered the story of Cain and Abel. Cain murdered Abel, hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember why or any other details. She chose not to answer the question. “Spector said that the knife is quite old and quite rare, that you might have access to a list of owners.”

  Doc Shepherd eyed her for a few silent moments. He reached up and twirled his mustache. “Agent Rezvani,” he said, “I come from a long line of surgeons. We’ve spent generations trying to save lives and inventing better ways to do so. If information I can provide will help you save the lives of other young women, then I will be in your debt for the opportunity. But, if what Mr. Spector told me is true, the practice of abortion is somehow mixed up in this whole thing. And that concerns me greatly.”

  Agent Rezvani swallowed. She couldn’t afford to cut off this source, but she needed to be up front. “Doctor Shepherd,” she said, “are you saying that you might withhold information depending on the political slant of this case?”

  “Absolutely not,” Doctor Shepherd said, each word a scalpel stroke. “I’m going to assume that you deal quite frequently with political agendas, with that manner of power-brokering vacillation in the FBI?”

  “Almost daily,” she said.

  “Then, I will forgive your insinuation. I will give you everything within my power to give.” He paused, reached into a drawer, and removed a piece of paper filled, margin-to-margin with text and numbers. “This is a list of every known Cain’s Dagger knife, its original owner, its purchase history, and its current owner. If my source is to be believed, there are only six knives surviving.”

  “Who is your source? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “My Uncle Timothy,” he said, straightening his lively turquoise bow tie. “He was once an orthopedic surgeon of some renown. Ninety-two now but still razor-keen intellect. He’s a bit of a collector of surgical implements. He knew just who to call in Europe to find out about the blade.”

  “In Europe?”

  “That’s where the blade was made,” Doc replied. “A collector associate of Uncle Tim’s put him on to it straight away.”

  “May I have the list?”

  He slid the paper to Rez. “I would like you to promise me something.”

  Rez took the sheet. “It’s hard for me to make promises,” she said, “when I’m in my official capacity, that is. I’ll do my best.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll accept that. This is what I ask: Smiling Jack used a nineteenth century abortion implement to murder young women. I think it’s clear the weapon was chosen for a purpose. He’s promoting a message of some kind, and it’s not clear, to me at least, what manner of message he’s trying to send. But Agent Rezvani, make no mistake, Smiling Jack wants everyone to know what he’s doing and why. He wants press. He wants attention. All I ask you is this, whether Smiling Jack is some sick Pro Lifer or something else, will you do your best to make sure that his message does not get heard?”

  Agent Rezvani blinked. Doc Shepherd surprised her.

  “At this point,” she said, “I’m not sure. I’ve recently entertained the idea that the killing cycles match the rise of Pro Life Presidential candidates. But whatev
er his message, Smiling Jack is a murderer. If there’s anything I can do to mute his message, I will do it.”

  “Thank you, Agent Rezvani,” he said. “And please, when you see Mr. Spector, pass along my apologies for a misunderstanding. And do let him know that I’d like to see him again before this is all over.”

  “I will,” she said. She stood up with the list, scanning it as she started to leave. Then she froze. “One of the Cain’s Daggers,” she said, “it’s owned by a doctor in this hospital.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Doc Shepherd said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a valve replacement to prepare for.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The only good thing about the Internet cafe was the coffee. My search results had proved utterly fruitless. Nearly all of the remotely similar child abductions in Shreveport had resulted in a body being discovered or the lost child returning, found, or rescued. There were a handful of unsolved disappearances, but five of those had been male children. The rest had been girls already in their teens. I couldn’t completely rule out the girls, but they didn’t seem to fit Smiling Jack’s MO.

  I was disgusted. The whole case had been like this. Every promising start, every revealing clue, led to a dead end. I lifted the great mug to my lips and drank deeply. When I lowered it again, the man who called himself Mr. Scratch sat across from me.

  “Dear, oh dear,” he said, feigned distress dripping from his words. “I do believe I have seen you looking better.”

  “I’ve had better days,” I replied, playing along. I still had no clear evaluation of this man. His eyes showed no sign of being taken, and yet there was definitely something unwholesome about him.