[Martin Rhodes 01.0] Close Your Eyes

by Thomas Fincham

  She ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a large soft drink. It was not a healthy meal, especially for someone with a heart condition, but Jo didn’t care. She had had a rough morning. A killer had walked into a busy station and left a dead body for the passengers to find. He was clearly playing a game. And he was willing to risk getting caught playing it.

  He was cocky and arrogant, as well as dangerous and reckless.

  What if someone had spotted him and alerted the authorities? she thought. Would he have dropped the body and run away? Or would he have left even more dead bodies in the wake of his escape?

  It would not surprise her if the killer came armed and prepared. He would have planned for all possible outcomes. Jo did not believe his crime was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  No.

  Those who committed crimes of passion often tried to hide their deeds by dumping the body in some remote area. They never disposed of the body in a public place.

  But what did he hope to achieve by displaying his kill? she wondered. Maybe it was a message? But to who? It can’t be the police or FBI.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  What if it was?

  The killer had called the FBI field office around the time Tammy Lynn had raised the alarm. He wanted the FBI involved rather than the local police.

  Her order came, and she grabbed the tray and found a seat near the window.

  She pulled out the paperback Ben had given her. The title read Killers That Got Away.

  She took a sip from her soft drink and stuffed a handful of fries in her mouth. If Dr. Cohen saw what she was eating, he would lock her away. Or at the very least, he would have her declared unfit for duty.

  She flipped the pages and found the chapter she was looking for. During the late 1980s, a serial killer had left six dead bodies underneath bridges in the city. The public had dubbed the killer the “Bridgeton Ripper.” Not because the killings were somehow similar to the killings in 19th Century London, but because the killer had ripped his victim’s bodies apart and then put them back together.

  The author gave an overview of the case along with a brief introduction of each of his victims. Jo chose to skip over one of the Ripper’s victims. It was just too personal.

  Next, the author discussed his own theories about the case. The killer, according to the author, was highly educated, perhaps even in the medical profession. The killer had to have been very patient and methodical. The victims were found cut up and stitched back together. Their organs had been removed and then placed back inside their bodies. This required extreme precision, as if the killer was performing surgical procedures.

  Jo was already familiar with the author’s theory. She disagreed that the killer was somehow already an expert when he started his killing spree.

  According to her research, the first couple of victims’ bodies looked like they had been butchered. But by the time the last of the victims were found, you could not tell anything had been done to them except for minor scarring on their skin.

  The killer had gone from amateur to expert.

  But there was still a lot of truth to the author’s theory. The killer was someone who was educated and with a medical background.

  Her mind flashed back to the suspect the police believed was the Bridgeton Ripper at the time of the killings. Dagmar Kole was a cook in a small restaurant. He was uneducated and spoke very little English. Kole had come to the United States from Austria. He was a small man, but he had big hands. His family owned a butcher shop in Austria, where Kole spent his childhood learning the trade. It was easy for the police and media to believe he was capable of committing these terrible crimes. It also did not help that the police received an anonymous tip from a witness who had seen Kole on the bridge on the night the last victim’s body was found and gave the police a clear description of him. It did not take long for the police to bring Kole in. He was questioned, and although he admitted he was at the bridge on that night, his statements placed him at a bridge away from the crime scene. According to Kole, a man approached him outside the restaurant he worked at and gave him one hundred dollars to pick up a package for him at that bridge.

  Kole was careful with his money, and instead of taking a cab, he took a bus. Fortunately for him, he took the wrong bus and thus ended up at the wrong bridge. The bus driver later confirmed seeing Kole on that night. He looked lost and confused, not like someone who had dismembered a human being and had left their body to be found.

  The police eventually let Kole go, but some of the victim’s family always believed he was hiding something. Kole was never able to give an accurate description of the person who gave him the money.

  The pressure from being labeled a killer was too much on the poor man. He eventually hanged himself in his apartment. An autopsy later revealed that he was suffering from early stages of dementia.

  Jo believed the real Bridgeton Ripper had tried to pin the killings on Dagmar Kole. He failed, but soon after that, the killings suddenly stopped.

  Jo finished her meal and left the restaurant.

  TWELVE

  Jo entered the concrete and granite building and took the elevator to the sixth floor. The FBI’s Bridgeton field office was in the heart of the city’s downtown core. Why someone had decided to open an FBI office at this location was beyond Jo’s understanding. For one thing, driving to and from the office during rush hour was a pain. Second, employees of the Bureau did not get free parking unless they were driving a government-issued vehicle.

  Jo had been offered special accommodations due to her medical condition. She was given a permit that would have allowed her to park in one of the reserved spots underneath the office building. She declined. It would have meant taking a desk job if she had accepted. She would not allow her health to dictate her ability to work. She always parked in the underground parking garage of a hotel adjacent to headquarters instead.

  The elevator doors opened and she got off. She headed straight for her desk, which was located in the middle of the floor.

  Before she sat down, a man said, “I heard you got a nice one today.”

  Jo turned and found Chris Foster smiling at her. He was medium height and skinny with a mushroom-style haircut. He always wore a Hawaiian shirt. Jo once asked him why, and his response was that he dreamed of retiring to an island. Jo next asked if he had ever been to Hawaii. Chris said no. He did not like the sun, water, or even the sand. He much preferred staying behind his computer.

  Jo thought he was kidding, but he was serious.

  Unlike her, Chris was not an agent. He was a civilian employee of the Bureau. He had always dreamed of working for the FBI ever since he watched the X-Files. However, Chris was not fit to be an agent. He was not in physical shape, and he was not particularly motivated. He was determined to work for the FBI though. After several applications and examinations, he finally made it through and was assigned to the Bridgeton field office as an information technology expert.

  “There is nothing nice about a murder,” Jo replied as she sat down behind her desk.

  “Yeah, but it must be cool that the killer left clues for you to piece together.”

  Jo sighed. “This isn’t some movie, Chris.”

  “If the case gets more intriguing, one day it could be.” His eyes suddenly lit up. “Imagine some movie studio decides to put our lives on film. Some fresh-faced starlet can play you, and Brad Pitt or George Clooney can play me.”

  Before Jo could respond, another man asked, “Who’s playing what?”

  Special Agent Tarik Habib was well-built with curly hair, tanned skin, and brown eyes. He had on V-neck sweatshirt, khaki pants, and black boots.

  Jo said, “Chris thinks Brad Pitt or George Clooney would play him if they ever made a movie about us.”

  Tarik laughed. “They wouldn’t even play your voice if they ever made an animation of you.”

  Chris was not amused. “That’s not funny. So who would play you then?”

  Tarik rubbed his chi
n. “If I could have someone play me, it would be Omar Sharif.”

  “Wasn’t he an actor from the sixties?” Chris said.

  “He was, but if I could have anyone play me, it would be him.”

  A woman walked up to them. She had on blue jeans and brown leather boots. Her top was white with a blue sport jacket over it. She had short dark hair, green eyes, and full lips.

  As her rank indicated, Probationary Agent Irina Januska was still on her probation period. After her first two years were completed, she would be promoted to Special Agent.

  “What’re you guys talking about?” she asked in a heavy European accent.

  Tarik said, “If they made a movie about us, who would you like to play you?”

  “I would play me,” she quickly replied.

  “Have you ever acted?” Chris said.

  “No, but how hard could it be?”

  “It’s very hard,” Chris corrected her.

  “It might be hard to play someone else, but it will not be hard for me to play me.”

  Chris opened his mouth but then shut it.

  Jo waved her hands. “Okay, let’s get back to work.” She pulled out a DVD from her pocket and held it to Chris. “It’s the security footage from BTA. Pull out anything you can that might help us identify the killer.”

  Chris snatched the DVD from her fingers. “I’m on it.”

  Jo turned to Tarik and Irina. “I want you guys to go to Broadview Station. The killer left the subway there, and I don’t think it was random. I think he chose it for a reason. I want you to find out why.”

  THIRTEEN

  He sat cross-legged on the floor of the spacious apartment. The apartment was located in a nice part of the city. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, a custom-built kitchen, modern furniture, and a hi-definition television.

  His head was shaved and so was his face. In fact, he had gotten into the habit of shaving his entire body. He was shirtless, exposing his ripped arms, shoulders, chest and stomach. He spent as much time working out as he did meditating. There was a lot of pain and suffering in his past he never wanted to be reminded of. Meditation helped clear out the crap that was brewing in his head.

  He opened his eyes and then began performing a hundred push-ups on his fists. He then proceeded to do a hundred sit-ups.

  After he was drenched in sweat, he stood up and walked over to the kitchen, where he made himself a cup of herbal tea. He used to be overweight. Junk food was his best friend. Not anymore. His body was his temple, and he chose to take care of it.

  He took a sip from the cup and then strolled through the apartment. He stopped at a painting in the hallway. He did not know who the artist was, but he knew the painting was expensive.

  Everything in the apartment was expensive.

  He could never afford a place like this. No. It was his master who was paying for this luxury.

  He was just a down-on-his-luck drunk when his master had found him. He had taught him discipline. He had given him purpose. He had saved his life.

  His master had also given him a name. Jacopo.

  He did not know what it meant, nor did he care to. His master could call him a piece of shit for all he cared.

  His real name was not important, his master had told him. His real name had given him nothing but disappointment. His new name would elevate him to greater heights.

  Jacopo.

  The more he said that name, the more he liked it.

  His master had promised him wealth in return for his obedience, and his master had not failed him. This apartment and everything inside it was his reward.

  He had never come close to living in luxury. He had always been a failure. He had never been good at anything. He had gone from job to job, the last one lasting the longest: two years. His marriage had fallen apart right after that. And he had not seen his daughters in a very long time.

  But he was a failure no more.

  Jacopo was his name, and as Jacopo, he would live his life now.

  He walked back to the living room. The television was on mute, but on the screen, a news reporter named Ellen Sheehan was talking about something. He did not need to hear her to know what she was saying. Her location told him everything.

  He took another sip of his tea.

  He was grateful to his master, and as his servant, he would do anything for him.

  He would even kill again.

  FOURTEEN

  Detective Jay Crowder walked into the police station. He had short gray hair, a large belly from drinking too many beers, and his teeth had started to turn yellow from heavy smoking.

  He was quickly waved over by the female officer at the front desk. “He was looking for you again,” Officer Shannon said.

  “Who was it?” he asked.

  “You know who,” Shannon replied.

  Crowder grimaced. “Tim Yates?”

  “Who else?”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you were busy. I also told him to call you.”

  “Good. I was busy.”

  Shannon laughed. “Sure you were. I bet you got another lady on the side.”

  Crowder was twice divorced. He cheated on his first wife with his second wife and then he cheated on his second wife with his third wife. Now his third wife had caught him cheating with another woman.

  “Why would you say something like that?” he asked. His eyes glinted with irritation.

  Shannon scoffed. “You will bang anything that moves.”

  “I’m offended. And for your information, I was not with another woman. In fact, I was trying to win back my wife.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “Not good. She won’t answer my calls. She won’t open the door…”

  “What about your keys?”

  He frowned. “She’s already changed the locks.”

  Shannon rolled her eyes. “This is not looking good.”

  Crowder sighed. “I really messed up this time. I love her, and I want her back.”

  “What happened to the new woman?”

  Crowder looked down at his belly. He shrugged. “It just didn’t work out.”

  Shannon smirked. “I bet she realized what a mistake she had made with you and dumped your sorry butt.”

  He raised his arms in exasperation. “Why do you gotta kick a man when he is down?”

  “Because you never learn, Jay. You keep cheating and cheating, and I’m telling you, one day there will be no one left to cheat on. You are already old, and soon you’ll be lonely.”

  Crowder shook his head. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you.”

  “You talk to me because I have your back,” Shannon snapped. “If I told Mr. Yates that you’ve been distracted with your own bullshit, he’d have you reported to the chief. How is the case going, by the way?”

  “I’m working on it,” he claimed, and he walked away.

  Tim Yates’s seventeen-year-old son, Reed, had had his cell phone stolen while he was shopping at a mall. Reed then decided to use the tracking app on the phone to locate it. But when he went to retrieve it, there was argument and he was shot. He died a few hours later from his wounds.

  When the case came to Crowder’s desk, his first stop was to go the location of the shooting. It was in the parking lot of a pizza shop. Unfortunately, the shop was in a gang-infested part of the city. This meant that there were no witnesses, or at least no witnesses that were willing to come forward and give a statement.

  Even the pizza shop’s owner denied seeing anything. And when Crowder pressured the owner to get the security footage from the shop’s cameras, he discovered the cameras were only for show, having not been in operation for years. The owner was not too concerned about being robbed either. Crowder believed one of the gangs was protecting him. He also knew no cameras meant that nothing illegal was ever recorded.

  He tried using the stolen phone’s GPS to locate the person behind the theft, but the feature had been disabled, leaving Crowder
no electronic trail to follow. He knew he was sunk, which was why he could not bear to face Tim Yates yet.

  FIFTEEN

  The sun had started to set. Rhodes still did not know where he was going or what he would do next.

  He had a simple plan when he had come to Bridgeton. Find a place to stay, find a place to work, and maybe start his life anew.

  Daisy had nipped that plan in the bud.

  He still cringed at her name. He was so gullible to fall for her damsel-in-distress story. What if there was no boyfriend? he had wondered later. He did not see any marks of physical abuse on her face or arms.

  He shook his head. Violence toward women occurred in many ways. Just because he could not see abuse, it did not mean it was not there. Maybe Daisy had suffered from emotional abuse. But if so, why did she have to take all his money? He would have given her some if she had just asked.

  Maybe she was desperate, he thought. Maybe she saw no other way out.

  He could not ask anyone in Bridgeton for help. Maybe he could call his ex-wife and see if she would be willing to lend him some money. He would pay her back once he found some form of employment.

  He shook the thought away.

  There was no way he would go back to her. He had hurt her and destroyed their marriage. It took him ten years to finally be able to repay her. He was not about to ruin the good he had done in Parish.

  There has to be some other way, he thought, but what?

  Maybe he could call Tom Nolan. Nolan would send him money for sure.

  Rhodes frowned. Nolan had already given him cash when Rhodes had left Franklin. He could not ask him for more.

  He sighed. He could not believe he was thinking of people to hit up for cash.

  Is this what my life has come to?

  He never imagined he would become a pariah like his father. His father was a good-for-nothing SOB who was always sweet talking people for money. He always promised them that he would pay them back, but he never did. Maybe he never had any intention to begin with.