by Fox, Stephen
West shook his head. “And you expect us to swallow this story?”
Patrick laughed. “I truly don’t care whether you find me believable or not. I am not trying to persuade you of anything. Your belief or disbelief will not change the facts I am relating to you today.”
On that note, thoroughly bewildered, the officers left the room.
Barbara Foster was bored. The baby woke her up three times last night and her attention span today was nil. Usually she enjoyed her job in the Police Fingerprint Lab. As fingerprints were received, she would enlarge them using a state of the art copy machine. If the print was smeared, she would tape a transparency over the copy and trace the highlights of the fingerprint using a fine point marker. This would help eliminate most of the smudging, allowing the computer to concentrate on the lines and whirls. This was a painstaking task, sometimes taking hours to complete if the fingerprint was badly blurred. Once the tracing was done, the transparency was scanned into the computer and a copy saved. Only then could the prints be compared to the local database, encrypted on her computer.
The local database contained fingerprints of known felons in the Savannah area. Most crimes are local in nature, and police could get a handle on the local boys very quickly. If a match was not found, Ellen’s computer could connect through the phone lines to the FBI’s computer in Washington. Because of the multitude of requests, the wait for results from this source could be days, if not weeks. Normally Ellen enjoyed the routine, but today everything seemed so dull. And to top it off, her monthly report was due. She was required to count and list all of the various duties she had performed over the last month, so that someone higher up could compile the results and justify their existence in some meager way.
As her hands danced over the keys she thought back to the events of the last week. First that guy disappeared from one of the cells. Well, that sure stirred things up around the entire department. Then the prints had come back linked to a twenty-five year old murder. The next day the same prints were linked to a fifty-year-old case. Wow! Talk about job definition. This was the sort of thing that made the job worthwhile.
A ‘ding’ behind her interrupted her thoughts. Each of the five computers behind her was searching for a match for a different set of fingerprints and was set to notify her if a match was located. Two were running prints through the local database. Two were connected to the FBI records in Washington. The fifth was working on a hunch. Some of the girls had been chatting yesterday, and naturally the talk turned to the biggest story in the department for years - the missing prisoner. Charlene had made the comment that she wondered how many other deaths could be laid at Patrick’s feet. Margie, never one to miss a chance to join the conversation, chimed in. “Yeah, and in how many places?” This aroused Ellen’s curiosity. If they could link him to other crimes, maybe it would help locate the suspect. They had tried locally and nationally. The only arena left was international. A call to obtain permission and the prints were sent to Interpol, an organization of law enforcement officials from 175 countries working together to promote cooperation among member police groups. Founded in 1923, the headquarters in Lyons, France contains the largest collection of criminal records and evidence in the world.
A twist in her chair and Ellen was facing the offending machine. A glance at the screen told her that this machine contained the prints of James Patrick. Why that was the name of the suspect that escaped from the jail. Apparently another match had been found. Ellen had been excited yesterday when Patrick’s prints had been linked to a twenty-five-year-old crime. What she saw on the screen today thrilled her and sent her scurrying for her supervisor.
Sergeant West sneered, “Do you believe the crap this guy is spreading?”
The officers relaxed in the soundproof observation room next door. The two interrogators had joined the commissioner and Captain Underwood. FBI Agent Palmer also observed the procedures.
Williams appeared thoughtful. “It sounds like a fairy tale, but how else do you explain his fingerprints being on a murder weapon seven years before he was supposedly born? And he really does appear younger than he did when we arrested him. Of course it was dark then and…”
West looked incredulous. “You’re buying his story, aren’t you?”
The commissioner shook his head. “I’m not sure what to believe right now. This case gets more bizarre every minute. He threw me such a curve with this vampire thing, I haven’t even asked him about the other murders. When we start to talk about those deaths, I halfway expect Rod Serling to come out of the woodwork and start his ‘Imagine if you will …’ spiel.”
Lieutenant Morris opened the door. “Captain Underwood, this message just came in from Interpol.”
Underwood took a quick glance at the document. His eyes widened and he read the paper in earnest. “Commissioner Williams, I’ll do you one better than that. Our little pal in there has just been linked with another set of murders. It seems that there was a serial killer in London who killed five ladies before vanishing. While photography was still in its infancy as far as being used at crime scenes, a photographer stumbled onto the scene of one of the crimes and managed to get a few pictures. The police confiscated them. One photograph shows a partial palm print on the satin blouse of one of the victims. Well today, over a hundred years after the crime, Interpol matched that print.”
The men all looked at each other for several moments. Then Williams spoke as he shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You mean that he …”
“That’s right.” Underwood looked grim. “The palm print of a man supposedly born in 1951 was photographed on a body in the fall of 1888.” He pointed through the window of the interrogation room, where the suspect sat at a table, oblivious to their confusion. “Gentlemen, meet Jack the Ripper.”
The interrogation continued a few minutes later. This time Williams and Underwood joined the questioners. For this part of the questioning officers set up a video camera in the corner. Williams had decided they would need as much documentation of the interview as they could get. After the usual bureaucratic beginnings, Underwood started it off. “You claim there are many more people with this same, shall we say, craving of yours. Would you care to name names?”
The captain wasn’t sure whether the man truly was growing younger, or if it was the power of suggestion. The distinguished gray streaks running through his hair seemed to have almost vanished, and he moved with a fluidity that had been missing earlier. Underwood seemed to remember crow’s feet around the suspect’s eyes, but no trace of lines was evident now. The tall suspect appeared even more at ease than before, as if it was a relief to finally tell his story. “Any names I could give you would be meaningless to you. We do not crave the spotlight, so you would not recognize them. Besides, for obvious reasons the Chosen change names quite often, especially after our metamorphosis.”
“But you do have contact with other members, don’t you? Don’t you belong to a commune or a coven or something?”
That statement brought a sniff from Patrick. “We have no need to stay together like a herd of cattle. The last time I saw another was over fifty years ago. So believe me when I tell you that any names I would give you would have been changed decades ago.”
Several questioners started talking at once. Williams won out. “You say that so nonchalantly, like fifty years was nothing. A few days ago you looked like you were in your late forties. Right now you look in your mid thirties, and you say you will continue to grow younger. Just how old are you?”
The Chosen cocked his head as he figured. “My birth occurred in a little village in England in the year 1647. That would make me a little over 350 years old.”
Sergeant West broke the long silence that followed the pronouncement. “Yeah? You have some fancy stories, but so far I haven’t seen anything to convince me you aren’t some wacko trying to get off with an insanity plea. Back up your mouth with some proof.”
The suspect seemed amused by the pol
iceman’s anger. “It is a very tall tale, isn’t it? But as hard as it is to believe, unless you have lived in this body, I am the third child born of Jonathan and Margaret Patrick and I was born January 5, 1647 in a small village northwest of London. Charles I was King of England, Scotland and Ireland, but Cromwell would soon behead him. But it was of no consequence to us. I was still a baby. And peasants like my parents were trained not to meddle in politics. All in all my childhood evolved in a reasonably happy and uneventful fashion.” He grew thoughtful as he looked back through history in his mind.
“Then your parents didn’t tell you of this, ahhh, curse until later in life?”
“My parents were not of the Chosen. Neither was I until I was nineteen.”
“Then how…”
“Surely the name and my description should have given you the clues. I was not born this way. I was chosen by another.”
The men looked at each other. “You were chosen? What does that mean?”
James Patrick shook his head from side to side as he laughed. “You really don’t get it do you? Like a vampire, I was given the blood from another.”
They stared in astonishment. Williams, showing his revulsion, recovered first to ask the inevitable question. “You drank their blood? I thought you said that you didn’t do that.”
“You misunderstand.”
“Then you do drink blood.”
“I did not say that. We do not drink their blood. Rather we exchange blood, much like the ceremony your American Indians perform to become blood brothers. Both parties cut themselves and rub the bloody cuts together. It is a shallow cut, so the human’s body has a chance to change without fear of bleeding to death. Of course the Chosen has no need to fear. Our cuts heal in minutes. After the exchange, within hours the human body begins to grow stronger. The immune system of the Chosen blood begins to take over the host body, and all disease, allergies, and imperfections are eliminated. The entire process takes about four days.”
In spite of his skepticism, Underwood’s fascination grew with the story. Patrick smiled as he watched the captain’s fingers draw on the table.
“Are there any other changes in the body?”
The suspect leaned forward, eager to parade his superiority. “Many. All our senses become enhanced, although the sight does diminish back to human levels as we approach Regeneration, which is what our renewal is called. Body strength is trebled at least. Members of our group are among the finest gourmets in the world due to our acute senses of taste and smell. But the biggest change to our bodies is in our brain. Ordinary men use only a fraction of their brain’s capabilities. We can utilize our entire brain. We think clearer and faster than man. We also can use the uncharted portions of the brain, which control psychic abilities. This enables us to use telekinesis to control objects such as I did on the lock to your cell.”
West remained doubtful. “You can actually move objects with your mind?”
“Of course.” The man sounded matter-of-fact. “However there is a size factor. I have been able to lift a concrete block and move it several feet, but anything bigger is beyond me. I have heard of some of the Chosen being able to lift a small car for a brief time, but few of us are that talented.”
“I thought you guys were perfect,” Cappazoli said.
“Not perfect. We still have the same differences in body and mind that we had before the change. The process merely enhances what God has given each of us.”
West slammed his fist on the table. “God? You dare to talk about God creating you?”
Patrick remained calm. “Why not? God created all of us. Remember I was born a perfectly normal boy. You may argue all you want about whether the Chosen are God’s work. Personally I believe in God, as do many of the Chosen. In fact, at least one of our number is a minister.”
“Really? What church?”
“Obviously his parish and even his religious affiliation change after each regeneration, but his caring nature and devotion to his flock remain constant.
“How does he justify the need to kill with the Ten Commandments? You know, ‘Thou shalt not kill?’”
“While I have heard of this man, I have not met him, so I am not privy to his inner thoughts. I assume he lives with the guilt the way so many other priests and ministers live with alcoholism or other secret sins.”
Underwood jumped in before the conversation could get further off target. “Let’s get back to these mental abilities. What about telepathy?”
A small shrug. “The percentage of true telepaths is about the same as with humans. Within the Chosen, a few have the gift of the ability to send messages, but few are able to do more than send ideas and feelings. Most of us however can bend lesser minds like yours to perform small acts. We can make humans take notice of things or ignore them. That is how I was able to free myself from your jail. I was able to reach into the lock with my mind, unlock the cell, then help everyone present to concentrate on other matters and ignore my leaving.”
Underwood jumped at the chance to exonerate his officers. “So you were able to unlock the cell. There was no negligence on the part of the officers who arrested you.”
“The officers did a fine job. They treated me with civility and compassion. I opened the cell and walked out. For the amount of time it took to leave the room, they merely found themselves concentrating so much on whatever they were doing they didn’t notice me leave.”
“So you hypnotized the entire squad room?”
“It couldn’t really be called hypnosis. I can’t make a person cluck like a chicken, for example. I can just make them so wrapped up in what they’re doing they fail to notice me. How often have you heard the words, ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ All your attention is concentrated on some task or problem and you tune out the world. I can touch a person’s mind in such a way that he focuses so strongly on the problem before him you could drive a tank through the room and he wouldn’t notice. Call it hypnosis, or clouding their minds, or speckled Spam for all I care. I don’t know what it is or how it works. As the shoe ad says, I just do it.”
Underwood nodded. “That will clear Johnson and Carter and restore the good name of this station.”
West laughed. “Yeah, providing you can get people to believe this cock-and-bull story he’s handing us.”
The suspect stroked his chin. “I’m sorry to say that that might be correct. We Chosen have spent millennium staying in the shadows keeping our existence secret. Without substantiation, I’m afraid your officers’ reputations will still be somewhat soiled.”
West continued. “So the only way we can clear the men is to prove that this imaginative fairy tale of yours is true. How do you propose to do that?”
“What about a blood test?” Everyone looked over at Palmer, who had been silent so far. “Mr. Patrick, would you be willing to give us a sample of your blood for analysis? Maybe that would give us some clues.”
Patrick agreed and the interrogators took a break while Cappazoli went to get the jail’s nurse.
“What do you think of his story, Commissioner?”
Williams looked pensive. “Either the man is hopelessly insane or he really is inhuman. That story is too hoakey for him to think anyone would buy it.”
“I think his story is basically true.” The others looked at Captain Underwood in amazement. “We all know there are a great many weird things about this case. His story fills in a lot of gaps. If we disbelieve him, we still have a lot of unanswered questions. His covering himself with blood and killing the boy could be insanity. His escape from jail could be negligence. But how do we explain the matching fingerprints from one hundred years ago? I don’t think we would get a false match twice with the same suspect. Right now we have this man’s fingerprints on four separate crimes spanning a century. I don’t think coincidence would begin to explain those facts.”
He paused to gather his thoughts. “However, I do think he’s lying about knowing any others of his kind. Notice he did mention tha
t many are gourmets. And he told the story about the minister. How would he know that if he hadn’t seen a Chosen in fifty years?”
“That’s true,” Palmer agreed. “He does know a great deal of information about his people for someone who never sees them. And it’s not like he can keep up-to-date with a newsletter or magazine. Besides, he and his brethren have to have some way of communicating. I don’t think they could perform the complete change of identity they require without some help.”
The nurse had drawn his blood and the samples had been sent to the lab. Round three of the interrogation was ready to begin. Underwood noticed that Patrick did seem even younger than he had that morning.
This time Commission Williams did the honors. “You have admitted killing two people in the last twenty-four hours. Would you like to tell us about any others?”
Patrick laughed. “You mean, would I like to unburden my soul of these heinous crimes? I’ve killed at least a dozen people personally and assisted in many more. But I’m not the run-of-the-mill serial killer. I don’t keep a list or mementos of my victims. Neither do I revel in the act of murder. You must remember, it’s not me doing the killing; it’s more than a figure of speech when I say it’s in the blood.”
“Does the name Mary Cline ring a bell; or Marsha Bates?” Williams asked.
