They clinked the heavy beer glasses again. “We did good, boys. And believe it or not, it can only get better,” said Starkey.
As they always did, they re-told old war stories -Grenada, Mogadishu, the Gulf War, but mostly Vietnam.
Starkey recounted the time they had made a Vietnamese woman 'ride the submarine'. The woman, a VC sympathizer of course, had been stripped naked then tied to a wooden plank, face upward. Harris had tied a towel around her face. Water from a barrel was slowly sprinkled onto the towel. As the towel eventually became flooded, the woman was forced to inhale water to breathe. Her lungs and stomach soon swelled with the water. Then Harris pounded on her chest to expel the water. The woman talked, but of course she didn't tell them anything they didn't already know. So they dragged her out to a kaki tree which produced a sweet fruit and was always covered with large yellow ants. They tied the mamasan to the tree, lit up marijuana cigars and watched as her body swelled beyond recognition. When it was close to busting they 'wired' her with a field telephone and electrocuted her. Starkey always said that was about the most creative kill ever. “And the VC terrorist bitch deserved it.”
Brownley Harris started to talk about 'mad minutes' in Vietnam. If there were answering shots from a village, even one, they would have a 'mad minute'. All hell would break loose because the answering shots proved the whole village was VC. After the' mad minute', the village, or what remained of it, would be burned to the ground.
“Let's go into the den, boys,” Starkey said. “I'm in the mood for a movie. And I know just the one.”
“Any good?” Brownley Harris asked, and grinned.
“Scary as hell, I'll tell you that. Makes Hannibal look like a popcorn fart. Scary as any movie you ever saw.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Nine
The three of them headed for the den, their favorite place in the cabin. A long time ago in Vietnam, the trio had been given the code name Three Blind Mice. They had been elite military assassins did what they were told, never asked embarrassing questions, executed their orders. It was still pretty much that way. And they were the best at what they did.
Starkey was the leader, just as it had been in Vietnam. He was the smartest and the toughest. He hadn't changed much physically over the years. He was six feet one, had a thirty-three-inch waist, a tan, weathered face, appropriate for his fifty-five years. His blond hair was now peppered with gray. He didn't laugh easily, but when he did, everybody usually laughed with him.
Brownley Harris was a stocky five feet eight, but with a surprisingly well-toned body at age fifty-one, considering all the beer he drank. He had hooded brown eyes with thick bushy eyebrows, almost a unibrow. His hair was still black, though flecked with gray now, and he wore it in a military-style buzz cut, though not a'high and tight'.
Warren 'the Kid' Griffin was the youngest of the group, and still the most impulsive. He looked up to both of the other men, but especially Starkey. Griffin was six feet two, lanky, and reminded people, especially older women, of the folk-rock singer James Taylor. His strawberry blond hair was long on the sides but thinning on top.
“I kind of like old Hannibal the Cannibal,”Griffin said as they entered the den. “Especially now that Hollywood decided he's the good guy. Only kills people who don't have nice manners, or taste in fine art. Hey, what's wrong with that?”
“Works for me,” said Harris.
Starkey locked the door into the den, then slid a plain, black-box videotape into the machine. He loved the den, with its leather seating arrangement, thirty-six-inch Philips TV, and armoire filled with tapes that were categorized chronologically. “Showtime,” said Starkey. “Dim the house lights.”
The first image was shaky, as someone approached a small, ordinary-looking redbrick house. Then a second man came into view. A third person, the camera operator, moved closer and closer until the shot was through a grimy, bug-specked picture window into the living room. There were three women in the room, laughing and chatting up a storm, totally unaware that they were being watched by three strangers, and also being filmed.
Take note that the opening scene is one long camera move without a cut,“ said Harris. ”Cinematographer is a genius, if I don't say so myself."
“Yeah, you're an artist all right,” said Griffin. “Probably some latent fagola in you.”
The women, who looked to be in their mid-thirties, were now clearly visible through the window. They were drinking white wine, laughing it up on their 'ladies' night'. They wore shorts and had good legs that deserved to be shown off. Barbara Green stretched out a leg and touched her toes, almost as if she were preening for the movie.
The shaky camera shot continued around the brick house to the back door at the kitchen. There was sound with the picture now. One of the three intruders began to bang on the aluminum screen door.
Then a voice came from inside. “Coming! Who is it? Oohh, I hope it's Russell Crowe. I just saw A Beautiful Mind. Now that man is beautiful.”
“It's not Russell Crowe, lady,” said Brownley Harris, who was obviously the camera operator.
Tanya Jackson opened the kitchen door and looked terribly confused for a split second, before Thomas Starkey cut her throat with the survival knife. The woman moaned, dropped to her knees, then fell onto her face. Tanya was dead before she hit the black and olive-green checkerboard linoleum of the kitchen floor.
“Somebody's very good with a survival knife. You haven't lost your touch over the years, ”Harris said to Starkey as he drank beer and watched the movie.
The hand-held camera shot continued, moving quickly through the kitchen. Right over the bleeding, twitching body of Tanya Jackson. Then into the living room of the
house. A jumpy song by Destiny's Child was playing on the radio and now became part of the movie soundtrack.
“What's going on? Barbara Green screamed from the couch, and curled herself into a protective ball. ”Who are you? Where's Tanya?"
Starkey was on her in an instant with the knife. He even mugged for the camera, leered eerily. Then he chased Maureen Bruno into the kitchen, where he drove the RTAK into the center of her back. She threw both arms into the air as if she was surrendering.
The camera reversed angles to show Warren Griffin. He was bringing up the rear. It was Griffin who had brought the blue paint, and who would actually paint the faces and torsos of the three murder victims.
Sitting in the den of their cabin, the buddies watched the film twice more. When the third showing was over, Thomas Starkey removed the videocassette. “Hear, hear!” said Starkey, and they all raised their beer mugs. “We're not getting older, we're getting better and better.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Ten
Hoorah!
In the morning, Sampson and I arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to begin our investigation into the Bluelady Murders. C-130s and 141s were constantly flying overhead. I drove along something called the All American Freeway, which I then took to Reilly Road. Surprisingly, there had been no security cordon around the Army base, no fence around the post, no main gate until September 11. The Army had allowed local motorists to use base roads as transit from one side of Bragg to the other.
The base itself measured twenty-five miles east-west, ten miles north-south. It was home for combat troops ready to be sent anywhere in the world within eighteen hours. And it had all the amenities: movie theaters, riding stables, a museum, two golf courses, even an ice skating rink.
There were a couple of signs as we entered at one of the new security posts. One read: Welcome to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, Home of America's Airborne and Special Operations
Forces. The second was common to just about every US base around the world: You are entering a military installation and are now subject to search without a warrant.
The grounds were dusty, and it was still hot in the early fall. Everywhere I looked I saw sweaty soldiers running PT. And humvees. Lots of humvee
s. Several of the units were' singing cadence'.
"Hoorahl'I said to Sampson.
“Nothing like it,” he grinned. “Almost makes me want to re-up.”
Sampson and I spent the rest of the day talking to men dressed in camouflage with spit-shined jump boots. My FBI connections helped open doors that might have stayed closed to us. Ellis Cooper had a lot of friends and most had originally been shocked to hear about the murders. Even now, not many of them believed that he was capable of the mayhem and cruelty involved.
The exceptions were a couple of noncoms who had gone through the Special Warfare School under his command. They told us that Cooper had physically bullied them. A PFC named Steve Hall was the most outspoken. “The sergeant had a real mean streak. It was common I knowledge. Couple of times, he got me alone. He'd elbow me, knee me. I knew he was hoping I'd fight back, but I didn't. I'm not that surprised he killed somebody.”
“Just chicken-shit stuff,” Sampson said about the training-school stories. “Coop has a temper and he can be a prick, if provoked. That doesn't mean he killed three women and painted them blue.”
I could feel Sampson's tremendous affection and respect for Ellis Cooper. It was a side he didn't let show often. Sampson had grown up with a mother who was an addict and a dealer, and a father who'd run out on him when he was a baby. He had never been much of a sentimentalist, except when it came to Nana and the kids, and maybe me.
“How do you feel about this mess so far?” he finally asked.
I hesitated before giving an answer. “It's too early to tell, John. I know that's a hell of a thing to say when your friend has less than three weeks to live. I don't think we'll be welcome around Fort Bragg much longer either. The Army likes to solve its problems in its own way. It'll be hard to get the kind of information we need to really help Cooper. As for Cooper, I guess my instinct is to believe him. But who would go to all this bother to set him up? None of it makes sense.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Eleven
I was starting to get used to the C-130s and 141s that were constantly flying overhead. Not to mention the artillery booming on the shooting range near Fort Bragg. I'd begun to think of the artillery as death knells for Ellis Cooper.
After a quick lunch out on Bragg Boulevard, Sampson and I had an appointment with a captain named Jacobs. Donald Jacobs was with CID, the Army's Criminal Investigation Division. He had been assigned to the murder case from the beginning and had been a key, damaging witness at the trial.
I kept noticing that the roads inside Fort Bragg were well trafficked by civilian vehicles. Even now, anyone could get in here and not be noticed. I drove to the section of the base where the main administration buildings were located. CID was in a redbrick building that was more modern and sterile-looking than the attractive structures from the Twenties and Thirties.
Captain Jacobs met us in his office. He wore a red plaid sport shirt and khakis rather than a uniform. He seemed relaxed and cordial, a large, physically fit man in his late forties. “How can I help?” he asked. “I know that Ellis Cooper has people who believe in him. He helped a lot of guys when he was a DI. I also know that the two of you have good reputations as homicide detectives up in Washington. So where do we go from there?”
“Just tell us what you know about the murders,” Sampson said. We hadn't talked about it, but I sensed he needed to be the lead detective here on the base.
Captain Jacobs nodded. “All right. I'm going to tape our talk if you don't mind. I'm afraid I think that he did it, Detectives. I believe that Sergeant Cooper murdered those three women. I don't pretend to understand why. I especially don't understand the blue paint that was used on the bodies. Maybe you can figure that one out, Dr. Cross. I also know that most people at Bragg haven't gotten over the brutality and senselessness of these murders.”
“So we're causing some problems being here,” Sampson said. “I apologize, Captain.”
“No need, ”said Jacobs. “Like I said, Sergeant Cooper has his admirers. In the beginning, even I had a tendency to believe him. The story he told about his whereabouts tracked pretty well. His service record was outstanding.”
“So what changed your mind?” Sampson asked.
"Oh hell, a lot of things, Detective. DNA testing, evidence found at the murder scene and elsewhere. The fact that he was seen at the Jackson house, although he swore he wasn't there. The survival knife found in his attic,
which turned out to be the murder weapon. A few other things."
“Could you be more specific?” Sampson asked. “What kind of other things?”
Captain Jacobs sighed, got up, and walked over to an olive-green file cabinet. He unlocked the top drawer, took out a folder and brought it over to us.
Take a look at these. They might change your mind, too." He spread out half a dozen pages of copies of photographs from the murder scene. I had looked at a lot of photos like these, but it didn't make it any easier.
“That's how the three women were actually found. It was kept out of the trial so as not to hurt the families any more than we had to. The DA knew he had more than enough to convict Sergeant Cooper without using these brutal pictures.”
The photographs were right up there with the most grisly and graphic evidence I'd seen. Apparently, the women had all been found in the living room, not where each of them had been killed. The killer had carefully arranged the bodies on a large, flowered sofa. He had art-directed the corpses, and that was an element that definitely caught my attention. Tanya Jackson's face was resting in Barbara Green's crotch; Mrs. Green's face was in Maureen Bruno's crotch. Not just the faces but the crotches were painted blue.
Apparently, Cooper thought the three women were lovers. That may have even been the case. At any rate, that's why he thought Tanya rejected his advances. I guess it drove him to this."
Finally I spoke up. “These crime scene photos, however graphic and obscene, still don't prove that Ellis Cooper is your murderer.”
Captain Jacobs shook his head. “You don't seem to understand. These aren't copies of the crime scene photos taken by the police. These are copies of Polaroids that Cooper took himself. We found them at his place along with the knife.”
Donald Jacobs looked at me, then at Sampson. Tour friend murdered those women. Now you ought to go home and let the people around here begin to heal."
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Twelve
In spite of Captain Jacob's advice, we didn't leave North Carolina. In fact, we kept talking to anybody who would talk to us. One first sergeant told me something interesting, though not about our case. He said that the recent wave of patriotism that had swept the country since September 11 was barely noticeable at Fort Bragg. “We have always been that way! ”he said. I could see that, and I must admit, I was impressed with a lot that I saw on the Army post.
I woke early the next morning, around five, with no place to go. At least I had some time to think about the fact that this could be my last case. And what kind of case was it, really? A man convicted of three gruesome murders claiming to be innocent. What murderer didn't?
And then I thought of Ellis Cooper on death row in Raleigh, and I got to work.
Once I was up, I got on-line and did as much preliminary research as I could. One of the areas I looked at was the blue paint on the victims. I checked into VICAP and got three other cases of murder victims being painted, but none of them seemed a likely connection.
I then ran down a whole lot of information on the color blue. One thing that mildly interested me was the Blue Man Group performance artists who had started a show called Tubes in New York City, then branched out to Boston, Chicago and Las Vegas. The show contained elements of music, theater, performance art, even vaudeville. The performers always worked in blue, from head to toe. Maybe it was something, maybe nothing too early to tell.
I met Sampson for breakfast at the Holiday Inn where we were staying the Holiday Inn Bordea
ux, to be more precise. We ate quickly, then drove over to the off-base military housing community where the three murders had taken place. The houses were ordinary ranches, each with a small strip of lawn out front. Quite a few of the yards had plastic wading pools. Tricycles and 'cozy coupes' were parked up and down the street.
We spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon canvassing the close-knit community where Tanya Jackson had lived. It was a working-class, military neighborhood, and at more than half the stops nobody was home.
I was on the front porch of a brick-and-clapboard house, talking to a woman in her late thirties or early forties, when I saw Sampson come jogging our way. Something was up.
“Alex, come with me!” he called out. “C'mon. I need you right now.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Thirteen
I caught up with Sampson. “What's up? What did you find out?”
“Something weird. Maybe a break,” he said. I followed him to another small ranch house. He knocked on the door and a woman appeared almost immediately. She was only a little over five feet, but easily weighed two hundred pounds, maybe two-fifty.
“This is my partner, Detective Cross. I told you about him. This is Mrs. Hodge,”he said.
“I'm Anita Hodge,” the woman said as she shook my hand. “Glad to meet you.” She looked at Sampson and grinned. “I agree. Ali when he was younger.”
Mrs. Hodge walked us through a family room where two young boys were watching Nickelodeon and playing video games at the same time. She then led us down a narrow hallway and into a bedroom.
A boy of about ten was in the room. He was seated in a wheelchair that was pulled up to a Gateway computer. Behind him on the wall were glossy pictures of more than two dozen Major League baseball players.
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