Forbidden Birth

by William Rubin

  Tears welled in the corners of my eyes as I saw the bracelet I gave Michelle during our courtship. Photos from earlier showed Michelle wearing a small blue ribbon that extended from the belt loop of her skirt. Her left knee was bent, draped over her right knee. Her legs were clean-shaven and unscathed and she wore a pair of gray Reebok walking shoes. Like the ribbon, they were unfamiliar to me and seemed out of place.

  In the backyard at the house, Kennedy hovered around me, uncertain what he should do.

  “You going to make it, Chris?”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?…” My voice trailed off. I was frozen. Just as the note foretold, my eyes and ears were useless right now. They were gathering information, but none of it registered in the least. “There was another note?” I said cautiously.

  “Yeah.” Kennedy turned and yelled to a CSU member. “Roberts. Bring a copy of the note over here. Now.”

  Roberts looked up from collecting dirt samples. He put the last of the samples in a small glass jar, closed the top, and slipped it into a case that contained leaves, hairs, and fibers. A short jog later he was beside us, pulling a copy of the note out of another case he carried.

  Roberts was a frail, prematurely balding fellow in his mid-twenties with a small ring of rust colored hair. He was as well regarded on the force as he was painfully shy. “Uh, here you go, Detectives,” Roberts said as he extended the note towards us and averted his eyes. “A preliminary analysis of the note at the lab shows no prints except the deceased’s. According to our FBI sources, the note is identical in style to the ones found in LA.”

  “Thanks, Ken,” Kennedy said as Roberts stood still, quivered, and then scurried off.

  My eyes fixated on the note.

  My Dearest Detective Ravello,

  It seems we have finally come full circle. Beginnings and endings have merged into one. Prophesies and vows have been both foretold and fulfilled. Ah, but there is still much that remains for you and I to share. Grieve as you must, but do not dawdle.

  Many lives depend on you—and me.

  Your Friend & Confidante

  JLD

  My whole body went numb as I finished the letter. A few minutes passed before the full weight of Michelle’s death and the Durand predicament sank in.

  My beloved was gone forever, killed by a madman I had been unable to capture.

  Chapter 90

  Westchester County, NY

  The Giver shaved off another section of skin from the specimen he was working on. He was working his way from the inside out on this one. He thought of the old cliché and smiled. Variety was indeed the spice of life, especially as it related to death and dismemberment. Already gone were the woman’s uterus and ovaries, as well as sections of her pancreas, spleen, and liver.

  Durand took care in preserving each of the tissue samples. Some he placed in formalin, others he added to a periodate-lysine- paraformaldehyde solution. A few small bits of tissue that were already fixed were stained with hematoxylin and eosin, Masson’s trichrome, and mucicarmine solution. He would make a careful study of it all, thereby accelerating his understanding of the human genome and his ability to manipulate it to his liking. Soon he would be able to splice together different victims’ DNA and create “clones” with whatever physical attributes he desired. He was very close…just a few more victims were needed.

  He processed the woman’s body much as a master butcher would process livestock, wasting nothing. Not a trace of remorse passed through his body. He was, after all, a sociopath of the highest degree. Conscience was a weakness others suffered from. A weakness that held them back while he pressed on. He was hurtling forward, so close to his goal he smelled and tasted it.

  But he knew he could not cross the finish line unaided. He needed one other person’s help. A person cut of the same cloth. One who shared a common lineage and sense of purpose.

  He needed Ravello.

  Chapter 91

  A cool, stiff breeze blew through the autumn air. Fall-colored leaves—brown, orange, yellow, and red in hue—crackled with the last vestiges of summer. My black hair tussled about as I stood with a downcast expression on the rolling hills of Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Hawthorne, New York. The funeral mass had ended about an hour ago at Church of the Magdalene in Pocantino Hills. It was a lovely mass at the quaint, little country church we frequented. The last bit of dirt had just been tossed on Michelle’s casket and Deacon John, my dad, and the kids, and almost everyone else had begun listlessly moving towards their cars. I felt as empty and alone as I ever have.

  Kevin Kennedy and RJ King stood opposite me. Each man was wise beyond his years in the ways of tragedy and death. Each was also ignorant when it came to consoling a friend and brother about his loss. Minutes dragged by in silence and separation, each of us feeling the enormity of eternity swirling around and suffocating us.

  Police Commissioner Kelly broke up the pathos. Decked out in a dark blue suit and conservative tie, he offered condolences. “Terribly sorry for your loss, Chris. Michelle’s death shakes each of us greatly. She was the salt of the earth,” the commissioner said with a resigned shake of his head.

  “Thanks Commissioner,” I said sullenly. “I for one won’t rest until Durand pays for his sins.”

  Kelly’s head pulled back. I could tell what I just said didn’t sit well with him. He reached his hand out to the side of my shoulder.

  “Rest assured Detective…Chris. We’ll search high and far to find a more definite link back to Durand. And when we do, we’ll pounce.”

  I felt the restraint in me collapse. A river of emotion poured forth.

  “A more definite link? With all due respect, sir, what are you looking for? A friggin’ videotape of Durand murdering Michelle?” I shook my head, enraged. “Michelle would still be alive if the NYPD didn’t hold me back since her first attack.” I knew he and his had stood in my way, had impeded my progress. I just didn’t know why.

  Kennedy jumped between Kelly and me and pinned his hands to my shoulders, looking at me like a trainer does with his woozy fighter during a title match. “Let’s have a minute to chill out, to cool down, eh, Chris?”

  “It’s okay, Detective Kennedy. I’ve said what I need to.” Kelly turned and faded off into the distance.

  I stared into and through Kennedy’s eyes. “I’m going to nail that bastard Durand, and anyone on our side of the fence working with him. Heaven help whoever that may be.”

  Silent up to this point, RJ chimed in. “Amen to that, brother. We’ve got your tail.”

  “That’s right, Chris. No need to look beyond us three for the answers,” Kennedy continued.

  With the clarity that comes only from all consuming rage, I heard Kennedy’s message loud and clear, and knew he was right.

  The answers lay right in front of me and had all along.

  Chapter 92

  This was even harder than the funeral. Twenty-four hours ago I wouldn’t have thought that possible.

  I stood before Christine and little James, searching for the words that would make sense of it all. Tears crept into the corners of my eyes as I began.

  “Why are you crying, Daddy?” Christine asked with concern. Little James beamed with happiness, his broad smile belying the circumstances.

  I choked out a reply. “Daddy’s a little sad about Mommy, that’s all, sweetie.”

  Confused, yet still wide-eyed and innocent, Christine replied, “I’m sad too, Daddy. Where did Mommy go? Is she okay?”

  “She’s more than okay, sweetie. Remember how we go to church on Sundays and the deacon talks about God and heaven and Jesus?” Christine nodded in affirmation. I took in a deep, halting breath, corralling my emotions so I could focus on the kids. “Well, Mommy is in heaven with God and Jesus. It’s a nice place, kiddo.”

  “Oh,” she said with caution and bewilderment. “Is anybody else in heaven?”

  I almost lost it again. Christine, like her mom, was so innocent, so pure. So defenseless. �
��Sure sweetie. Lots of people. Your grandma went to heaven when you were just a little girl, remember?”

  There was a glimmer of understanding. “Is she taking care of Mommy?”

  “Knowing your grandma, kiddo, I’m sure she is.” I held Christine and James close to me. Hot, silent tears streamed down my face onto the back of Christine’s purple and pink flower-print dress. Our collective heart had been ripped from us. I gripped the children ever closer. I hoped time would lessen the pain, bridge the chasm in our souls. In my heart of hearts though, I knew the cold, hard truth: Nothing would ever be the same in any of our lives.

  And Durand was to blame.

  Chapter 93

  King and I couldn’t ask local law enforcement to keep the latest LA murder scene intact for nearly a week. But they did assist us in an unorthodox way. They recorded the crime scene for us before the bodies were removed and sent it to us.

  King and I were at the FBI’s headquarters in Manhattan, looking through the footage for the third time this morning. I was a mess, too distracted by Michelle’s murder to be helpful. The emotions were identical to the year before—when Mom was savagely and unexpectedly killed. Anger and sorrow ran neck and neck inside of me, driving each other to greater heights. But they paled compared to the utter sense of failure and self-loathing I was swimming in. Mom’s death had almost killed me. I vowed to never let something like that happen again in my life. So much for my vow.

  Mom’s death led to a one-eighty in my life. I left the financial security of medicine for a life battling it out on the streets. Dedicating my life to putting away the kind of people who had attacked my mother gave me a sense of closure on her death, helping me to move on.

  And in the end, it was all for naught.

  Michelle had suffered the same fate in the same way as my mom—murdered while I was chasing a ghost on the other side of North America.

  “You okay, boy? Want me to cue it up again?”

  “Huh? Sure, RJ, let’s have another go at it. Fourth time’s the charm, right?”

  Streaks of blood lead up to the front door. Inside were two bodies, one a middle-aged male with a distinguished face, the other a forty-something, non-descript woman of average height. They were propped at a child’s play table. The woman was dressed like Alice and the man like the Mad Hatter. A kettle of tea sat between them. As with the last few cases, each was mutilated in their own unique way.

  A note, pink in color and shaped like rabbit ears, occupied the exact center of the table. It read:

  Dear Detective Ravello,

  So sorry to hear about Michelle. BOO HOO! BOO HOO! Just remember: in my world things are seldom what they seem. Don’t be late! Don’t be late! One chance at redemption to save you from the same fate.

  You Know Who,

  JLD

  We ran the recording forward and back, searching for answers. There were none. At least none I was prepared to see. It was frustrating as hell. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get my head around the case, couldn’t get into Durand’s head.

  “Anything turn up print-wise, RJ?” I asked with resignation.

  “You want the good or the bad news first?”

  “I could use some good news,” I lamented.

  “Michelle’s prints are nowhere to be found.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “We have no idea whose they are. Came up negative on every criminal database we could think of. This Durand, he’s a slippery one.”

  I stared ahead impassively, my head a swirl of disconnected thoughts. There was something here, something obvious I was missing. I stood up, stretched out to my full height, and walked over to a window that looked over FDR Drive and the East River. Durand had slit Michelle’s throat not far from here.

  RJ regarded me with caution, but kept silent. I tried to think my way through the haze in my brain. What was the key to it all? What had I been missing? Was it something at the scene itself or a fleeting thought or comment one of us had made? I spent ten minutes mulling it over, slowing myself down and pondering the possibilities. Nothing. I turned and signaled to RJ, “Let’s get the hell out of here. These cases are so bizarre, so frustrating, I’m starting to feel like a victim my—”.

  And then it hit me. In mid-stride. To quote Yogi Berra, “It was Déjà vu all over again.”

  “RJ, I know who to check the prints against.”

  Chapter 94

  King chased me down the hall, towards the Bureau’s fingerprint expert division.

  “Ravello, where the hell you going, boy?!”

  “I’ve been wrong so many times already in this investigation,” I said with a shake of my head as I sprinted forward. “Don’t want more egg on my face if I can help it. I’ll let you in on it once we’ve got results.”

  §

  RJ sat in the seat across from me. Agents Melissa Tele´ and Vance Gibson were catty-corner to us. They spread out print sheets and began talking.

  “It’s as you expected, Detective. These three sheets contain prints from the last six Durand murder scenes. With the exception of your deceased wife’s prints, all the others came up without a match when we checked them against all known criminal databases, including, of course, our own beloved IAFIS.” Tele´’s hands drifted over the print cards as she continued her speech. “But when we compared them to the database you recommended, the results were quite different. Remarkably, each and every print found a match.”

  “Guess I nailed it, huh?” I said.

  “You most certainly did, Detective,” Gibson, a raggedly haired, bespectacled nerd, chimed in. Tele´ shot him an icy stare that would freeze a midsummer bonfire. She was not to be upstaged.

  “As you speculated, the prints are all from previous Durand victims. Specifically, the first LA murder prints are from the Central Park victim, Tracey Lin, that started Durand’s rampage.”

  “And let me guess, the last five murders sport prints from Durand victims two and three?”

  “Correct,” Tele´ said with a smug grin, as if she’d figured it all out, not me.

  I nodded my head a few times, taking it all in. “Good work, agents. Now for the real questions: Why? How? What would Durand hope to accomplish with all of this?” Blank faces stared back at me.

  RJ, not one to miss an opportunity to hear himself speak, did just that. “Pardon my French, particularly in the presence of a lady,” King said with a nod and a doff of an imaginary hat towards Agent Tele´, “but he’s fucking with you, Chris. The notes, the prints, Michelle’s kidnapping and murder. He’s goading your ass.”

  I agreed with King. But it still didn’t feel right. There was a lot more to Durand and his insane plot than mere revenge. What was obvious was this: the only way I’d get to the bottom of all this was by rushing into Durand’s world headlong and disregarding the consequences. I’d hoped to avoid that but he was pressing my hand.

  Who would have my back on such a kamikaze mission—and was there any chance I’d escape from it alive?

  Just then Kennedy called me.

  “Whoever walked off with Durand’s evidence, covered his tracks well. But I’m making discrete inquiries. It’s just a matter of time till a real lead develops.”

  “How about the warehouse case?”

  “We’ve got a development there. We identified the two missing cases as plastic surgery supplies―the anti-wrinkle medicine Boxin and some collagen facial fillers.”

  “How do those supplies tie into the Durand case?”

  “We’re not sure. The only link we found so far was Michelle’s prints at the warehouse crime scene.”

  “Christ, that’s right. Okay, I’m here with King. I’ll let him know we need an APB put out for a plastic surgeon tie in. Thanks Kev, gotta go.”

  Chapter 95

  The last fifty-two hours were as interesting as any in recent memory—which was saying a lot considering the hell I’d been through the last few months. It began with RJ receiving word from LAPD about a sexual assault complaint
made by the British model and actress Holly Williams. It involved a plastic surgeon with false credentials named Viejo. The connection to our Durand case seemed tenuous at best. Yes, Viejo was a plastic surgeon, and yes, he practiced near where the LA murders took place, but we had no evidence linking him to Durand in any way.

  We figured the whole Viejo thing would be a wild goose chase, an utter waste of time, after all, that summarized the whole Durand case up to this point—one huge, wild fucking goose chase. But what did we have to lose with one more red-eye to LA? We had no other leads to work on at present.

  Monday morning we headed over to Viejo’s swank Beverly Hills office and dragged him out kicking and screaming, past a waiting room full of celebrities and wannabes. LAPD booked him on practicing medicine without a license, while King and I rode him pretty hard to find a tie back to Durand. We came up empty. Discouraged and disgusted, King and I headed back to the hotel to pack up before catching a flight back east.

  Back at the Sheraton the call came in: they had found the connection. Records tucked away in a compartment in the wall in Viejo’s inner office proved eye opening.

  Viejo was the plastic surgeon for all our LA murder victims.

  Chapter 96

  The next installment in “my crazy life in LA” was beginning—I just didn’t know it yet. It was about forty-five minutes after the call came in on Viejo’s secret charts.