Five Knives

by D. F. Bailey

  Cecily rolled her eyes. She’d imagined that a simple in-house screen would provide an immediate result. “So now we have to wait all weekend?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry, Cecily,” he told her. “It’s very unlikely.” But he didn’t let on that he was worried, too.

  After his discharge from the hospital, they endured an hour-long questioning from the Berkeley PD, then made their way home. They spent another hour arm-in-arm comforting one another in bed. Soon after, they decided to push themselves to go back to work. “Let’s get some sleep, then just carry on,” Will said. Cecily didn’t need any convincing. By five o’clock they both slipped into a heavy, unbroken sleep.

  The next morning, as Cecily left the apartment and made her way over to her office at Berkeley, Finch ate some toast and washed down a Tylenol Three tablet with some coffee. He sat alone at the breakfast table to consider his next move. He knew he had to get back to the Post to file a report about the attack and Felix Madden’s arrest. But then he considered a more pressing issue. Something he needed to know before he could push the story forward.

  ※

  Will stepped into the dull light of the 500 Club and spied J.R. sitting near the far wall at his favorite table. Although Finch’s world had been tossed upside down and sideways, it appeared that nothing much had altered the life of Jeremy Rickets since they’d met here yesterday. He still wore the same clothes. Still nursed a glass of Miller. The demeanor on JR’s face hadn’t changed much either. The puffy cheeks, the heavy eyelids.

  As he stepped toward the table, Finch didn’t bother to put on a smile.

  “You not drinking?” J.R. asked, alluding to the fact that Will hadn’t stopped at the bar to order a beer. “Or is one o’clock too early for you?”

  “I have to stay sharp,” Will said and sat with his back facing the room. A gesture to show J.R. that he wasn’t troubled by paranoia. He set his courier bag on the floor and tried to relax.

  “I’m surprised you took my call,” Finch said. “Don’t get me wrong — I’m glad you did. Just surprised is all.”

  “Me too. I don’t know what it is. Maybe not being able to let go is the worst part of this thing.”

  This thing. Finch knew that he meant the PTSD. Mental illness with claws so long it latched onto the inside of your skull and dug in. From there it spawned and bred unending nightmares and ghosts. Finch decided not to reply. The worst thing he could do is open the door to JR’s on-going horror.

  A moment later J.R. continued. “So you say you’ve got something to share.” He lifted his eyebrows with a skeptical gaze, took a drink from his glass and then added, “That’s a very white word, by the way. Share.”

  Finch smiled. “The other day you said I never give up anything. Today I’m just an average white guy. You can’t have it both ways, J.R.”

  “Fuck you.” His mouth looked ready to bite.

  Finch held up both hands, his palms open. “Okay, my bad.” His expression shifted to reveal a kind of shame. “Listen. Yesterday I was an asshole, and I know it.” His gaze was steady. Sincere. “I apologize. You were a good man back in Iraq and I counted on you more than a few times.”

  J.R. nodded once, a slight gesture, and Will pressed on.

  “I’m going to tell you some stuff that the FBI has kept under the lid. And stuff I know about this story I’m working on. That’s it. After that, you don’t need to say a word. You can walk out of here and pretend we never met. But if you do say anything and I use it in my reporting, I will protect you as a confidential source. No one will know about you. The only thing I ask is that you never repeat what I’m about to tell you.”

  J.R. took another sip of his beer and set the glass down. He passed a hand over his eyes and nodded again.

  “The five knives killings that the FBI is tracking showed up in Wichita last April. Then in Reno in July. Then I found the same thing this week over in the Mission.”

  “You found it?”

  “Yeah. I think it’s related to a guy pushed from a window and killed in Chinatown on Monday. But it depends on whether his killer was a copycat. Or not.”

  J.R. blinked, a long pause with his eyes closed. Perhaps it was an attempt to shield himself from all the misery he’d seen. His eyes opened again. “Well, the big storms never blow in from one direction.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Believe me, they don’t.” J.R. seemed sure of it.

  “So here’s the thing, J.R. My guy died with his hands and his feet attached. And his balls on.” Finch glanced away, then turned his attention back to J.R. “But in Wichita and Reno the hands and feet were severed. And both men castrated.”

  They considered this in silence for a moment. Then J.R. asked, “Peckers, too?”

  “Yeah. That, too.”

  J.R. pinched his lips together and rolled his tongue over his teeth. The skin above and below his lips stretched tight, and it seemed as if he was preparing to spit out a wad of sputum that had crawled up his throat.

  “And you want to know … what, exactly?”

  “Like I said before. That’s up to you.”

  “Bullshit.” J.R. took another sip of beer and seemed to mull over everything he’d heard. He leaned forward and spoke in a voice so low that he was almost inaudible. “All right. The guy in Iraq? He cut them all. At least four of them. Hands, feet, peckers and balls. From what you say, then it’s the same psycho in Kansas and Nevada. Your guy — leaves their parts on? He’s the copycat.”

  Finch held himself from punching a fist in the air. He had it. A second source confirming that Madden was the copycat. The puzzle pieces now clicked together in a new way. He could almost hear them snap into place.

  “But you didn’t get it from me,” J.R. added. “None of it. I’ll deny it to the cops, and I’ll never appear in court.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  “No?”

  “On my word, man. You’re a protected source.” Finch held his eyes. “Think back. I never lied to you. And I never broke my word to you.”

  “All right,” J.R. rolled his lips in and out over his teeth as he considered another issue. “You know something?”

  “What?”

  “I figured it out after he left the sandbox. In oh-five. Too late to do anything about it.”

  “Figured what out?”

  “The guy. Vincent Sessions. He was the perp.”

  “Vincent Sessions.” Will repeated the words, but couldn’t recall the name. “And there were no more killings after he moved on?”

  “None. He disappeared, and that was the end of the game.”

  “You never told your CO?”

  “No. He got reposted the week before I figured it out.”

  Finch considered this. Failure to report his findings was a serious breach of protocol. It could still put J.R. in legal jeopardy.

  “Then what happened?”

  “The new CO came in a month later. A certified moron. Everything went backwards. Everything.” J.R. shook his head with exhaustion. “And that’s when … I just ran out of juice.” He tried to smile. “When there was no more black on a bruise.”

  Finch didn’t know how to respond. He waited to see if J.R. would say anything more.

  “And the failure to report what I found out?” J.R. drew a long breath. “I know. Now the crime’s on me. I own it. But you didn’t hear that from me neither. Okay?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Finch pulled his bag onto his lap and stood up. “Thanks,” he said.

  J.R. studied him for a moment and said, “You go lightly, Finch.”

  They traded a fist bump, and Will made his way through the door and onto Guerrero Street. A steady breeze was up. It dragged a dozen autumn leaves through the air, along the sidewalk and down the street where they stuck against a sewer grill. Soon, Finch thought, the fall winds will sweep through the city and everyone will forget the long storm that began on the night when Gio Esposito flew through the air.

  ※

/>   It was past three o’clock when Finch returned to the Post. As he approached the reception desk, Dixie Lindstrom caught his eye and told him to join the meeting underway in the boardroom. “They’re going to be glad to see you.” She smiled. “And so am I.”

  “Yeah. Nice to be seen.”

  She raised her hand. “Can you give this to Wally?” She passed him a folded slip of paper. “He needs to see it right away.”

  “Sure thing,” he replied and made his way past the rows of cubicles to a wall panel marked BOARDROOM.

  He knocked on the door and entered the long, narrow space. In the middle stood a large rectangular table that covered at least half of the room’s footprint. Everyone appeared to be studying a document projected onto the white screen on the far wall. Wally swung around to face him.

  “Well, well. Here’s the hero of the hour.” His face broke into a wide grin. “If you haven’t met him yet, everyone, this is Will Finch.”

  A round of applause rang through the room. Wally introduced him to Ross Sumner, the business reporter whom Wally had assigned to handle background research on TruForce Investments. Next to him sat Lou Levine, the legal advisor for Parson Media, the corporate body that owned the Post along with six other publishing properties.

  Finch shook their hands, then passed Dixie’s note to Wally and sat next to Olivia.

  Wally opened the note and tapped his knuckles on the table. “Happy days, folks. It appears that Julian Blomquist was taken into custody just before noon today.”

  Another cheer went up.

  “So we’ve got a one-day lead on everyone else, but you can bet every media unit in the country will be on this story within the hour. I want everyone here to focus on this story and nothing else. So that means we’re cleared for take-off, right?” He paused and glanced at Lou Levine for confirmation.

  “Yes.” The lawyer nodded. “You can report everything except the details on the five knives murders in Reno and Wichita. You can say Henman was killed by multiple knife wounds, but offer no details. And no photos.”

  He turned to Finch.

  “I understand you have photographs of Henman?”

  Finch nodded. “I do.”

  “Fine. Hang onto them. But until the feds clear us, we can’t print them.”

  “There’s something new on this,” Will said and then wondered how to continue. His priority — to protect J.R. as his source — would have to be guarded carefully. “I have a lead on the original five knives serial killer.”

  No one said a word. After a moment Wally’s chin dipped to one side as he leaned toward Finch.

  “The original?” Wally said.

  “He confirms the theory that Madden is the copycat.” Finch turned from Wally to Olivia and back. “I have a name of someone linked to similar killings in Iraq. A soldier who may be responsible for four knife murders before he was discharged.”

  A light buzz hummed through the room. Lou Levine held up a hand to silence everyone. “Don’t say another word. If you have something — I mean really something — on this then we have to disclose it to the FBI. And I mean right now.” He glowered at Wally to emphasize the pressing urgency.

  Wally nodded to Levine. The lawyer stood up, slipped around the table and tapped Finch’s shoulder. “Come with me,” he murmured and led him through the door.

  ※

  Lou Levine’s office was at the back of the Post building on the third floor. The window behind his desk looked onto Minna Street. The adjacent wall held three framed parchment degrees from Stanford, Berkeley, and Harvard. Next to his desk stood two pairs of chrome-framed leather chairs. A glass coffee table separated the two groupings. The zen-like arrangement suggested that it was a space designed for calm, reasoned mediation — as opposed to brass-knuckled legal brawling reserved for the courts. Over a hundred hardcover reference books lined another wall, legal tomes that Finch assumed were rarely pulled from their shelves. He knew that most legal research churned through the internet from legal databases like Lexus Nexus. Nonetheless, the books provided an air of credibility and Will reckoned that Levine was a competent advocate when he represented the legal interests of the Post — and by extension, the Post’s employees.

  Twenty minutes after Levine called Agent Raymond Albescu at the regional FBI office, he knocked on Levine’s office door. Beside him stood his partner, Dan Busby. Levine shook their hands and directed them to the two leather chairs under the triptych of framed degrees.

  Will recalled his previous meeting with the two agents. Somehow they appeared more vulnerable now. Busby easily filled a 48-medium jacket. Built like a center guard, he appeared ready to plow into a line of six men. His round head stood stock-still on his porcine neck. Albescu, on the other hand, seemed like an ex-basketball player. He stood tall and lean and bore a long, weary face etched with vertical worry lines. Despite their athletic builds, both men were well past their prime. For a brief moment, Will wondered if they’d both been benched for a few seasons and only called into action when the FBI needed all hands to solve the serial murders.

  “I understand,” Busby said, “that you’ve come across some information relating to the case we’re working on.” As Busby opened a file and placed it on his knees, Albescu pulled a small cassette recorder from his briefcase and set it on the glass coffee table.

  “We’ll be recording this,” Albescu said and clicked the record button.

  Finch recalled Albescu’s tender, almost delicate, voice and the contrast to his leathery face. Surely the man had been destined to work as a choirmaster. But somehow he’d been sidetracked to a life spent chasing down the devil. Then again, Will thought, maybe the two careers weren’t so different after all.

  “Fine with us. Let’s dig in,” Levine said and waved a hand to dispense the formalities. “First, I want you to know that when Will brought this information to our attention, I called you within ten minutes.”

  “Duly noted,” Busby said and turned to Will. “So what do you have?”

  “A name.”

  Busby forced a smile to his lips. “Good. And what is it?

  “Before I tell you, I need to be sure that we’re talking about the same person. In this case, I’m not referring to Felix Madden, the man who stabbed Seamus Henman.”

  Again, Lou Levine held up a hand in a bid to provide clarification. “I don’t know if you’d heard this yet, but Madden was brought into the Berkeley PD by Will last night.”

  Busby nodded, a bare acknowledgment of the battle in Finch’s apartment.

  “Understood,” Albescu said. “So who are you talking about?”

  Finch set his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “Like I said, I want to know something about the man you’re looking for.”

  “What?” Busby frowned and shook his head with a scowl of impatience. “Finch — it doesn’t work that way. You tell us what you’ve got. Then we decide how to proceed.”

  Finch glanced at Levine. The lawyer returned his look with a gesture that said, don’t play games.

  “All right. This guy does the five knives cuts just the way Madden did it to Henman. Belly, ribs, heart, throat, ear.” Will raised his hand and counted off his fingers, one for each laceration. “But here’s the thing. Madden is a copycat killer. The original killer also severed the hands and feet of each victim.”

  Busby’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

  “And their testicles and penises.”

  Busby studied Albescu — who nodded once. When Finch saw the gesture of agreement between the two cops he knew he was close.

  Busby dropped his hands into his lap. “So now we’d like that name, Finch.”

  “I’ll tell you.” He lifted his hands from his knees and sat back in the chair. “But I want you to confirm that we’re talking about the same perp. And if he is the same killer, I want an exclusive interview with you about this new case.”

  Busby’s face began to flush. He drew a breath and leaned toward Will. “Okay. No more fucking around.
We already guaranteed you an exclusive.” Busby glanced at his watch. “Three days ago. Now you can give us the name right now, or we’ll charge you for impeding an investigation and take you down to our office for interrogation.”

  Busby’s voice was hard, unwavering. And unnerving. Finch felt his heart sink into his stomach. He’d tried to leverage what he had and lost. He glanced at Lou Levine, a plea for support, but all the lawyer could do was offer a grimace that said, I told you: don’t try to play them.

  “So. You gonna shit, or do we drag you off the pot?” Busby held out a hand as if the choice was obvious.

  It reminded Finch of the offer he’d made to Jojo. Why had she taken the hard way out? He shuddered when he realized just how badly his day could go from here. “All right.” He took another moment to think. “The name is Vincent Sessions. He was on active duty in Baghdad until about 2005. The killings stopped when he moved on.”

  “Army? Marines? Who?” This from Albescu.

  “Army.”

  “Which unit?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many times did he strike?” Busby’s gaze generated an intense energy that seemed to stir the air.

  “At least four. I doubt anyone knows for sure.”

  “Four? Where’d you get this from?” Albescu asked in his heavy whisper.

  Finch considered how to protect J.R. Now he had to be careful. “I was stationed in Abu Ghraib at the time. There’d been rumors of someone stabbing the locals — the Hajjis — in Baghdad. Since I was with Military Intelligence, I was ordered to check it out. Nothing clicked at the time.” He paused to consider what to say next. Better to shut up, he decided.

  “That’s not what we asked,” Busby leaned forward. “Vincent Sessions. Who gave you the name?”

  Will realized that he’d reached the point of no return. He’d either have to lie or turn J.R. over to the feds. Or shield his source under the first amendment provisions. “I can’t tell you that,” he said. “He’s a protected source.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Busby stood up and wheeled about. His fists rolled into two hammers as he tried to restrain his temper.