The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  The receptionist’s computer is at an angle so that she is behind a small hutch connected to her desk. The woman does not even observe Jamie walking past. Jamie concludes that the killer probably thought he had a decent chance to get by unnoticed. When he did not, and instead had to sign in, the killer left without doing anything. Trying to sneak in a second time, he was seen again, so he used the “Forgot my phone, I’ll be right back” line. Clearly, it worked.

  From the receptionist’s perspective, “she” went in and had a normal visit. Then she came back, but only for a moment. It would not seem like enough time to commit the crime. That is all that matters for the first fifteen minutes after the body is discovered.

  Jamie walks down the hospital-like corridor, which is lined with railings for the elderly to use if they want to walk. She examines the length of the hallway and the staff there. The place is pretty empty. It would have been possible for the killer to enter the room of the victim and exit again without being seen by a staff member. Jamie finally reaches the room where the murder transpired. Once again, it is not the most convenient room in which to murder someone. In fact, it is only two rooms away from the nurses’ station. She peers into the room.

  “Who are you?” a grumpy old man grunts. He is sitting in a medical bed, propped up and facing a television.

  The room is furnished cozily, with nice wood floors, lush potted plants, and large windows through which to view the outside world. Every decoration, from the white cornice around the top of the room, to the lavish decorative lights, reveals to Jamie just how much a room in this nursing home would cost.

  “Sorry, wrong room,” Jamie excuses herself, trying to act embarrassed by looking down and away. But she hesitates a moment longer, soaking in all the details before scurrying away.

  Jamie is again able to pass through the foyer without the receptionist seeing her. Once outside, she sees that the short bus and the old man in the wheelchair are gone. A moment later, so is Jamie.

  She calls Gary Bierman, the victim’s oldest son, and asks the usual questions. It turns out that Mr. Bierman owned his own business selling oil and gas pipe. A self-made man.

  He had been president of the Abilene Business Association, on the boards of the local hospital, Rotary Club, and the United Way. He was very religious and an active member in his church. She asked him if his father had any contact with the Jewish community, and he responded, “Where? Here in Abilene? Is there one?” It turns out that there is a small Jewish temple in Abilene with around twenty-five members. Now Jamie has to suppress Gary’s barrage of questions about the Jewish connection. After she hangs up with him, she calls Kim Hammond from Research, to get an update on how the victims could have been associated during their lives. There seems to be nothing linking them.

  She is off to Flint, Michigan, in the morning. She figures that, in the meantime, she might as well see a little of Texas. She heads to the Lucky Mule Saloon for a bite to eat and some line dancing. The crowd of cowboy hats and giant belt buckles amuses Jamie. She gets hit on several times before she calls it an early night. She arrives back at her hotel around ten o’clock. The flight will leave at 5:25 a.m., and will include a stop in Dallas. It is the only way to get to Flint from Abilene.

  Chapter 21

  The private jet comes to a stop. Peering out the window, Simon sees a taxi waiting for him not far from the hangar. He will return to work and create his alibi. He gives the driver instructions, and, when the taxi arrives at the mall where his car is parked, Simon pays with cash. A reporter’s voice floats out of the speakers, assessing the traffic for that hour. He drives to his workplace and arrives at 1:05 in the afternoon. He makes sure several people see him as he walks to his office. It is pretty tough to get all the way from Atlanta as fast as he did. He immediately opens a file on his computer, makes a few changes, and saves it again. Now he has a permanent record on his computer of being 620 miles from the crime scene, less than four hours after the murder. His computer at work is locked very tightly, with automatic backups every fifteen minutes. He has made an indelible mark that places him far away from the death of Mr. Martin Rossi.

  With the pay period ending, it is time to fill out his timesheet. He has worked for the same company for many years. He knows quite well that the comptroller merely transfers the timesheet data to a spreadsheet, which is then forwarded to a payroll company. No one will scrutinize his time.

  Now he needs to get some real work done. Soon enough, he becomes lost in his work, until he leaves the office at 5:30 p.m.

  He climbs into his four-door sedan and begins the drive home. As the engine turns over, talk radio comes on. Simon turns it down, a little shocked that he was listening to it so loudly before. Once the car gets going, he smiles to himself and turns the radio back up, switching it to a music station.

  At home, Simon performs his routine walk-through, to make sure that there is nothing that could link him to the crime. Simon buys everything new for each murder. He makes his purchases the day before and does not bring any articles of clothing home, so he does not have to worry about hiding any evidence; the shoes, hat, clothes, gloves, sunglasses, fanny pack, and wig, if used, are all untraceable to him. It is his workshop in the basement that will require his attention instead.

  Simon walks down his stairs into the basement and looks over his workbench. He has already thrown away the leftover piano wire used to make the garrote and cleaned up the wood shavings from drilling the holes in the wooden dowels. Simon had put a sheet on the basement floor to collect all the bits of wood from his work. Once finished, he folded up the sheet, careful not to let any scraps of wood fall onto the floor. Such precautions might seem ridiculous to a normal person, but Simon knows that Forensics teams can match wood samples. He even threw away the drill bit after making the garrote. Typically anal-retentive, Simon now sweeps the basement floor again, but he collects nothing beyond the normal dust of life.

  Simon had double-bagged the trash and taken it behind different strip malls, to dispose of the bags in different dumpsters. One of his favorite dumpsters is located behind a busy restaurant. That dumpster gets full fast, so his bags are covered by the end of the night.

  Simon has no data on any of his targets at his house. Nothing on his computer and not one piece of paper from any of the files. He had rented a five-by-five storage space using a fake ID and paid cash in advance for the entire year. Simon even made the renewal date easy to remember, so the contract would not lapse. August 8, or 8/8. Eighty-eight. That number has become a neo-Nazi symbol. The letter “H” is the eighth letter of the alphabet. So eighty-eight stands for “HH”, which is short for “Heil Hitler.”

  Inside the storage unit sits a lone double file cabinet. The top cabinet is now empty. That is where he keeps the laptop he uses for each victim. The bottom cabinet is where he keeps his files. There are only two files left.

  He momentarily reflects on this past Sunday evening’s ceremonial laptop burning. Simon destroys each computer the same way. First he unscrews the outer case and then exposes the hard drive. He them places the laptop in a metal garbage can, douses it with charcoal lighter fluid and throws in his file on the latest victim. One match later, all that is left is a charred and melted mess. Once it cools, he wraps it in two-inch bandaging tape until it is completely indistinguishable like the peanut butter. He then double-bags it and places it in one of the dumpsters.

  Simon unbuttons the top button of his shirt, which seems to have tightened suddenly around his neck. He worries, “Am I missing something? No.” Another job executed exactly as planned.

  It is time to make the phone call. He automatically reaches to take his cell phone out of the holster on his hip and realizes it is not there. He did not take it with him today. No change of plans could have made him use his cell phone in Atlanta, no matter how dire the circumstances. He could not have his phone locate a cell anywhere but at home on the day of a murder. He goes to his bedroom where he finds his phone on his dresse
r connected to the charger. Simon always makes this particular call after each job. He hears the aged voice on the other end. They are mutually assured that the other is fine. Simon is satisfied.

  Chapter 22

  Jamie turns on her phone as the plane lands in Flint, Michigan. Her short nap has refreshed her. She waits for the plane to taxi up to the gate. Her phone vibrates twice, and Jamie sees two new texts. Both of them are from Phil Clark. She opens them up, eager to see why two texts are necessary.

  The first text reads, “Call me ASAP. Perp struck yesterday, Atlanta GA.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me!” Jamie exclaims fiercely to herself. She is in so much shock that she does not know if she said it aloud or in her mind. Right now, she does not care. She scrolls to the next text, anxious to see what it says.

  “Going to Atlanta.”

  Jamie wants to scream. She just spent six hours traveling in the wrong direction. A waste of time. Damn it. She needs to get to Atlanta immediately. Jamie does not bother calling Phil. She calls Francis Whitehouse instead.

  “Ah, Ms. Golding. I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Whitehouse answers very matter-of-factly.

  “I know. I just got the texts from Phil. I’ve been on a plane for the last few hours,” Jamie snaps bitterly. “When can I get to Atlanta?”

  “Well, Mr. Fredericks requested that you stay in Flint and finish up there first. Then you can meet Phil in Atlanta,” Whitehouse directs her in a monotone.

  “Absolutely not!” Jamie’s spits with fire. “I’ve got to get to Atlanta. Screw Flint! I’m not going to find anything here. It’s just procedure.”

  “Let me look up the soonest flight I can get you on. Until then, Fredericks wants you to check into the murder there,” Whitehouse answers.

  “Thanks, Whitehouse.”

  “Let’s see,” Whitehouse mumbles to himself. Jamie can hear his fingers working madly on a keyboard. “There aren’t a lot of flights from Flint to Atlanta. Your options are to leave today at 5:40 p.m. and arrive in Atlanta at 7:53 tonight. Or you can wait for the 6:00 a.m. flight in the morning and arrive at 7:56.”

  Jamie will not wait. “I’ll take the one tonight,” Jamie tells him. Atlanta traffic is atrocious. It would be a nightmare, trying to get anywhere at 8:30 in the morning. Besides, if it’s too late to go to the crime scene, I can go to the morgue.

  “Alright, I’ve got you a ticket.”

  “Okay. Whitehouse, don’t forget to file the NLETS. I’ve got my weapon with me,” Jamie reminds him. He does not usually forget, but today there is no time for error.

  “Of course. I will have Phil pick you up at the airport,” Whitehouse tells her with a sigh.

  “Thanks Whitehouse. I owe you one.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Jamie’s next call is to Phil. It goes immediately to voicemail. He is probably on the way to Atlanta. She grabs her things and joins the last trickle of passengers off of the plane. As she exits the gate, Jamie sees a large clock. She has five hours before she needs to be back at the airport, which is enough time to see the Flint police.

  Jamie makes her way to the airport entrance and climbs into the nearest taxi. She tells the driver to take her to the Flint Police Department. Jamie’s mind is still reeling from the news of another murder. It just does not fit. Where is the typical “cool down” period? The killer just struck ten days ago. It seems like something has changed the game. What prompted him to kill again so soon? Is he acting compulsively, or is he still meticulous in his planning? Has something unexpected set off the killer?

  All Jamie can think is that Atlanta has her answers, and Flint is just a waste of time. A cold crime scene is devoid of leads. Five hours to kill on an old trail when a fresh one is waiting for her.

  The taxi arrives at the police station, and Jamie pays the cab driver. She enters the police station and immediately finds Reception. Jamie introduces herself, and an officer shows her to Detective Moore’s office.

  “Hey,” Moore hails her, standing up. He grabs a napkin and wipes his greying mustache. “I’m Keith Moore. What can I do for you, Ms. Golding?”

  “I’m here to talk about the murder of Leon Farbor.” Jamie shakes Moore’s hand. She tries to hide her irritation at having to waste her time talking to this detective, who she is sure cannot provide her with new information.

  “Have a seat,” Moore directs her, sitting in his own chair. He leans over the side of his desk. “I’ve got the file right here.” After a couple of seconds, he sits up again and holds out a folder for Jamie.

  Leon Farbor was in good shape, for an 88-year-old man. His wife died four years ago, but he is survived by a daughter, who lives in L.A. She was not the type of daughter who called every day, but she happened to call the morning that her father was murdered. Farbor’s daughter has lots of money. She told detectives that for years she has been trying to get her father to move out to L.A, or at least to move in to a retirement community.

  “Are you sure there was no forced entry?” Jamie verifies, flipping through the crime scene photos and notes.

  “We checked and double-checked, but, to the best of my knowledge, there wasn’t any forced entry points at any of the doors, windows, or other possible entrances.” Moore takes another bite of his sandwich, which has been perched on top of the mess of files.

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “Well, the obvious suspect is the only surviving daughter, but, since she has more money than the old man, it doesn’t make any sense for her to kill him. And she talked to him that morning from L.A. So I guess, no,” Moore reasons, scratching his beer belly.

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “Oh, yes. I still get calls every week or two—from her, her husband, or their lawyer—asking if we have any leads. What can I tell them? The person who did this is a ghost. No evidence, no motive. We haven’t had any remotely similar crimes around here. So where are we supposed to look? But how did the Feds get involved? I didn’t notify them. Was he Mafia or something?”

  “Not exactly. Can I go see the house where he was murdered, or did the family sell the estate?” Jamie inquires, starting to feel the fatigue of flying, which does not improve her mood.

  “Yep, the house is already sold. So all you have to go by is the pictures from the crime scene,” Moore affirms with a shrug and a dubious look.

  “Well, thanks, here’s my card if anything turns up.” Jamie stands up to leave. No point in asking any more questions. There is no new information here, as with the rest of the murders. Jamie just wants to be in Atlanta.

  “No problem, good luck,” Moore bids her with a goodbye nod. He does not rise from his chair but opens up another case file. Moore takes a bite of his sandwich and is lost in more pressing business.

  She enters the taxi, thanks the driver, and gives him the address of the home. Even though Jamie cannot actually enter the house, she might learn something about the perp. Jamie has seen all of the other crime scenes; maybe there is something similar to show what the killer prefers as a layout or makes an easy target. But it is really just a formality. It is clear that these victims were each targeted, probably without regard to their locations.

  Mr. Farbor’s home is a cluster home, probably containing only three small bedrooms. The house is a part of a tract of fairly new, brick homes. Jamie checks the file and discovers that the victim had lived there for fifteen years. The neighbors are practically on top of each other, so it is strange that no one saw or heard anything on the day of the murder. With so little privacy, someone should at least have seen a strange car or van.

  There is nothing about this house that would make it an ideal site for a murder. In fact, it is the last place a clever serial killer would pick. Farbor, like the others, was not a random victim. He was targeted. They all were. But why?

  They are connected somehow. If only she could get some clue as to what link she should be looking for.

  * * * * Jamie finally arrives at Hartsf
ield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta. Following the flow of the crowd, she enters the train that speeds passengers through the miles of tunnels. Once outside, she sees Phil Clark sitting in a car parked on the curb, right behind a police vehicle.

  Jamie opens the passenger door of the dark blue sedan and greets Phil. Phil hands her a sub sandwich.

  As he drives, he fills Jamie in. “The newest victim is a Martin Rossi. White male, age 89. It’s the same M.O. There are no witnesses. Also strangled with a ligature; wound is exactly like the others. And yes, there is a note.”

  “Let me guess, it had ‘Arisai’ on it.”

  “Whoa, how did you know that? You figured it out?” Phil quizzes her, his tone impressed.

  “Not completely. The strange word on each one of the notes is from the book of Esther. From the Bible. Each name is one of the sons of Haman,” Jamie explains.

  “Sons of who?” Phil crinkles his forehead in confusion.

  “Haman, the villain in the book of Esther, had ten sons. Each one of these notes has had the name of one of his sons on it. Did the new note also have some initials?”

  “You know what those mean too?”

  “That I have no clue about,” Jamie admits. “I’m good, but not that good.”

  “There were more than just initials on this note. The note said ‘Ari’ and ‘sai’ and the initials ‘A.J.’ But get this: the note also had the words ‘Fools Behaving Irresponsibly’ written on the back.”

  “So?” Jamie replies between bites, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

  “Fools Behaving Irresponsibly. F-B-I. It's like he knew we would eventually get involved, and he is taunting us. This time, the note was in a flower arrangement. Probably how he got into the house.” Phil gets on I-85 heading North, straight for downtown Atlanta.