by Fox, Stephen
“I must plead ignorance. One would assume those are deaths you have somehow linked me to.” He shrugged. “But I assure you that I do not keep a ledger of my victims like some crazed lunatic. I abhor the killings. Like a lion or tiger, I only kill to survive.”
The Commissioner consulted his notes. “How about Annie Chapman, or Mary Ann Nichols?”
Patrick’s eyes widened and he made a little bow toward Williams. “Now those are names that I do remember. I’m impressed that your organization was able to make the connection to me.”
“Then you admit to being Jack the Ripper?”
The suspect shook his head, as he shifted his legs. “Yes and no. Jack the Ripper was actually a group of five of the Chosen working together. I was a willing participant, and held two of the victims while the needy member performed the grisly details, but I didn’t personally kill any of the five. It was an experiment in helping each other through the change. It wasn’t particularly successful, so it wasn’t repeated.” Curiosity crept into his voice. “But tell me, how was I linked to a one-hundred-year-old case?”
It was the commissioner’s turn to shrug, “Some crime buff vacationing in London got access to some of the pictures taken at one of the scenes. He noticed something on one of pictures that most people had taken to be a smudge. He discussed it with someone at Scotland Yard who retrieved the negatives and had the photo blown up and enhanced with a computer. The smudge turned out to be a partial handprint in blood on the victim’s silk blouse.
“Very ingenious. I left that evidence at least ten years before fingerprinting began to be used. Now a hundred years later, it can be used to hang me.”
“I doubt if you will ever be convicted of that crime. In fact, I doubt England will even ask for your extradition. We have enough evidence to convict you of the two current murders, and I’m sure that will be enough to satisfy everyone.”
Cappazoli interrupted. “We’re hearing some wild tales about living forever and telewhatsis and vampires and all. Great for TV but not believable in real life. Give us one bit of proof — one piece of evidence that will convince us that this story is more than a drug-induced fantasy.”
Patrick cocked his head and appraised the policemen for a few seconds. Then he started to get up. The officers looked alarmed, but Patrick smiled and raised his hands in submission. Williams and Captain Underwood relaxed, but the others remained on alert. The tall man motioned to Cappazoli and pointed to the conference table. “Do you believe you could break this table?”
Cappazoli studied the table that was made of one-inch thick solid oak, reinforced with one beam running the length of the table and cross slats in three places. Very, very sturdy. He jeered at Patrick. “Go ahead, hotshot. Give it your best shot.”
Patrick didn’t even hesitate. A quick windmill swing of his arm came crashing down on the middle of the table and it split in half with a loud cracking sound. He stood there not even breathing hard over the smashed table. Hearing the commotion, other officers came rushing into the room, but left with a nod from the Commissioner.
West sneered, “Great parlor trick, Patrick, but my karate class of ten year olds could do as well. What else ya got?”
Patrick’s eyes widened as he stared at West; then he nodded and said, “Fair enough. Does anyone have a pocketknife, please?”
The policemen exchanged glances.
“It’s perfectly all right. I promise I won’t leap on any of you and hold you hostage. I also swear that I will not do myself any lasting harm. May I have a small knife please?”
Commissioner Williams reached into his pocket and pulled out a jackknife. He opened it to its smallest blade, reversed it and handed it across the table to the suspect. The man took the knife and slashed once across his wrist as hard as he could. Blood spurted from the wound.
The officers leaped up, panic-stricken. Calmly Patrick motioned them to remain seated. He placed his hand on the table. Blood dripped on the surface and spread.
“Do not be alarmed, gentlemen. My body replaces the blood nearly as fast as it loses it. This is a method we use to prove ourselves one of the Chosen. Mortal men would not dare to savage their bodies this way. We of the Chosen do not fear the slashing of our bodies.”
The men looked in amazement, as the wound grew smaller in front of their eyes. Within two minutes the blood stopped flowing. Ten minutes later the wound was gone, with no visible scar.
Williams rubbed his neck, looked around at everyone and asked, “Anything further, gentlemen?”
Another scoff from West. “Yeah.” He turned toward Patrick. “When we surprised you in your house, why didn’t you just use that power of your to control us and just disappear?”
“A good question, Sergeant. The truth of the matter is that I couldn’t. It’s possible for me to hide from you humans for short periods of time, provided you are not aware of my presence. I can blur your senses, but not block them completely. If you know where I am, I don’t have enough power or expertise to prevent you from keeping me in your mind. Others have the power but not me.”
“These others are more powerful?”
“Oh yes. You’ve heard the mythical tales of ninjas? Believe me, they are more real than you can ever imagine. The best warriors of many nations are trained in the martial arts. Then the best and the brightest of these are inducted into our organization. Once they have been chosen, they are given more training in using their mental powers to further enhance their effectiveness. These ninja can seemingly appear and disappear at will, even while you are looking at them. They can hide even from me.”
The image of the incredible powers of these beings left everyone silent for a time. Finally Patrick spoke again. “Any more questions?”
“Yes, I have one more question.” As one they all looked toward Underwood. “Why now?”
Patrick cocked his head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why now? After hundreds of years of secrecy, why break the silence now?”
Patrick looked pensive. “I was a tired old man. Body and soul, I was exhausted. I was tired of the secrets; tired of the killing. Maybe it was the frustration of failing to find an end to the blood I have on my hands. For three centuries I’ve been forced to make blood sacrifice every twenty-five years. And there is nothing I can do to change that. I tried and I failed. Anyway, I wanted to break the cycle.”
Underwood continued. “You say you were a tired old man; does that mean you feel different now?”
“Now that my body is renewing itself, my mind is becoming more passionate for life.” The dark man seemed amused by the questions.
“However you feel about life, remember you are charged with multiple murders. How will it feel to be renewed, only to get the death penalty?” The others nodded as Underwood continued. “Or possibly worse, what about spending the rest of your life in prison?”
Patrick laughed. “Do you really think the politicians and scientists would allow me to be put to death? They will want to study me; to take me apart to see what causes me to be this way. I will be a guinea pig on display.” He shook his head and chuckled softly. “As for life imprisonment, I will just bide my time. When the time is right, when the guard is down, I will simply vanish. Remember how I disappeared from your puny jail? Do you really think you can stop me?” He sat back in his chair with a smirk on his face as if he dared them to deny his statement.
The interviewers continued their questions for several hours, but little new information was gathered. By evening they were convinced of the veracity of his statements but were uncertain where to go from here.
“The question is, now that we have him, what do we do with him?” Commissioner Williams was at the south end of the conference table. Seated with him were Captain Underwood, Lieutenant Cappazoli, and the Chatham County District Attorney, Bradley Sarensky. He had observed the interrogation since lunch. The suspect had been returned to his cell, under guard this time. “We can’t let him go. He’s confessed to at least a d
ozen murders. His fingerprints were on one victim, and he was standing over another covered in blood. But if we try to bring the man to trial his attorney gets copies of everything, and he either gets the case thrown out or gets an insanity plea. Who’s going to believe the things on that tape?”
“But the tapes show the whole thing.” Cappazoli looked confused. “Why won’t they believe the tapes?”
“There are computer programs now that can take a photo of Godzilla and morph it into a picture of Marilyn Monroe. In photography, nothing can be taken at face value any more.” The District Attorney was patient. “Any evidence has to be guarded to prevent tampering, especially audio or visual evidence. We have to take extraordinary precautions to prove that no one could switch or alter the data on the tapes. Granted you have worked very hard to keep the chain of evidence unbroken, but will any jury in the world believe the stuff on the video?”
Cappazoli snickered. “So the biggest question in court would be, who do they throw in the loony bin, the vampire or us?”
Underwood threw him a dirty look. “Rather crude but it does sum up the problem. Now the FBI is still requesting that we hand him over to them. I’ve stonewalled them until now because this really is not a federal case and I didn’t want to set a precedent. However, in this case it would solve a lot of headaches for us, and dump the whole problem in the Feds’ laps. We have enough evidence to clear the suspended officers, so that’s no longer a problem. Let’s turn him over to them. If anyone gets a black eye over this situation, let it be them.”
The commissioner looked around at the team members at the table and spoke. “So we’re in agreement that the best thing to do is to hand the entire case over to the FBI. Any more discussion? Okay, I’ll call Agent Palmer now and make arrangements for them to take custody in the morning.”
Meanwhile, in the Chatham County Jail, a dark figure opened a door to the East Corridor on the third floor. The corridor contained the eight maximum-security cells, only one of which was occupied at the time. The figure crept down the corridor toward the two policemen on guard just outside Patrick’s cell. Both guards stared straight ahead as if in a trance. A left to the jaw took out the first man and a knee to the crotch and a karate chop to the neck left both guards unconscious without ever seeing the face of their attacker. The figure unlocked the cell before the prisoner even realized what was happening. As the cell door swung open and the figure stepped forward, Patrick’s eyes widened as recognition took place. “You!” he exclaimed. A smile began to curl up on his face until he realized what was in the figure’s hands. “But I never meant …”
The blade of the ancient sword severed his head before he could even begin to plead for his life.
CHAPTER 5
The phone rang just as he sat down to eat. Underwood had known it would. He could spend four hours cooking the most extravagant meal without a peep, not the slightest hint of a ring. But just wait until he had the food hot in front of him and everyone in the world had an urge to call good old Jim Underwood. It had been this way since his rookie days. He sighed and reached for the phone.
“Jim? It’s me.”
Funny how her little-girl voice could stir him to life; even after all these years. Even after she had left him. “Ellen. Hi.”
“Are you busy? I’d like to come over.” His heart took a leap, before her next words sent it nosing into the ground. “I need to pick up a few things, if you don’t mind.”
Seventeen years of marriage, and it all came down to “if you don’t mind.” He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he answered, “No, that’s fine. I’m just grabbing a snack.”
“I’ll see you in a few minutes then. Bye.”
He replaced the receiver with a small sigh and stood there for a few moments. His thoughts went back to the early days.
He had been a patrolman then, in the days when they actually pounded a beat. Nowadays as everything spread out, the beat cop had gone the way of the dinosaurs, replaced by patrol cars and bicycles. Instead of your feet hurting at the end of the day, you wound up with a butt-ache.
His beat had been the downtown area and River Street. It was usually pretty quiet there if you didn’t count First Saturday and, of course, St. Patrick’s Day. Then River Street becomes a gigantic street carnival, with hawkers and booths everywhere. Green clothing, green beer, and green hair are the norm for the day. Once, even the river was dyed green for the occasion.
Most of the details were still fresh in his memory, even after all those years. It was the second Saint Patrick’s Day he had worked on River Street. Strolling along the cobblestones, he wandered through the crowd, looking for problems. With the crowd in the thousands, and beer flowing like water, a few situations were bound to turn up.
Lunchtime was approaching, and the crowd had doubled in the last hour. The previous year officials had estimated the throng at eighteen thousand, and they were hoping for more this year. As the horde of passers by jostled and shoved him, Patrolman Underwood saw nothing that would diminish their hopes.
He strode towards Spanky’s, a bar and grill on the east end of the street. No matter how many of the pizza chains opened in Savannah, none could compare to Spanky’s. And they treated him right, too. They couldn’t give him his meals for free. That might be considered a bribe, and had been outlawed by the city fathers many years ago. But they still took care of their protectors. Whatever a policeman ordered would always be bigger, juicier, better than normal. Not as big a perk as the old days, but he could live with it.
As he crossed Drayton Street, a scream rang out. He turned back toward the west to see a man, clutching a woman’s purse and rushing in his direction. The victim raced behind him, calling on the bystanders for help. As the snatcher fled through the crowd, a path seemed to magically appear in front of him, as the revelers moved aside rather than get involved. One drunken onlooker moved to grab the thief as he passed, but the felon shoved him, easily toppling the man, and continued his getaway.
With the screaming and the crowd, the purse-snatcher hadn’t noticed Underwood yet. He slipped behind the corner and waited. The bandit ran forward, reached the corner and turned to make his escape up Drayton to Bay Street. As he turned, Underwood calmly stuck out his foot. The suspect struck the foot and launched in a face-first dive toward the cobblestone pavement. His jaw bounced twice on the road before Underwood bent over and snapped the handcuffs on the unconscious snatcher. The stunned crowd stood silent for a minute, not quite believing the turn of events. As he grabbed for his radio to request transportation, Underwood wasn’t sure if the crowd was going to turn ugly. Riots had begun from lesser things than this in the past. He laid his right hand on his holster as he held the radio in his left. Then with a burst of cheering, the swarm rushed forward.
“Fantastic, Officer.”
“Man, you was awesome!”
One man, reeking of beer, almost fell over as he tried to pat Underwood on the back. “Increduble, oshifer, how you was able to knock them both down like that.” Underwood wondered how many that man had knocked down that day, and he wasn’t talking muggers.
By the time the victim finally managed to get to his side, he had the suspect on his feet, waiting for the patrol car to arrive. He turned to speak to the victim, and his tongue tied itself into knots.
The woman stood there, big blue eyes wide open and her ash blonde hair tied back in the kind of short ponytail that Southern women love to wear. She would never make it as a model. Her nose wasn’t quite right, a front tooth was chipped, and she had too many muscles. Still, she had an aura of sexuality that attracted him at first glance. She also had a Helen Hunt smile, the kind that curls up at the corners and makes you feel ten years younger.
Her name back then was Ellen Lewis. She accompanied him to the precinct to fill out a complaint against the suspect, one Daniel Wehn. Daniel’s rap sheet took up only two pages, but that was because he hadn’t seen his nineteenth birthday. The seven pages of previous arrest
s had been deleted from the computer and his records sealed the day he turned eighteen. At that point they had had to start over again on the road to get him locked up for good.
After talking for an hour at the station, he took her to dinner and talked some more. The spark grew quickly, and six months later they were married, with John Williams, complete with new lieutenant’s bars, filling in as Best Man. John, two years ahead of Underwood at the academy, became Jim’s first partner on the force.
At first he and Ellen were inseparable. Every waking moment outside the job, they were together, whether making love or just walking hand-in-hand in the park. He never cared what they did, as long as they did it together.
He remembered when it all started to come apart. He was patrolling Bay Street, six years back, when he spotted a light in a department store window. Radioing for backup, he covered the rear door as a figure came out, holding what looked like a cash box. The figure stopped momentarily at his command, then whirled. A muzzle flash and a loud report alerted the crouched policeman that the suspect was armed. Underwood returned fire and the suspect fell to the pavement. A black-and-white, with lights flashing pulled up as Underwood carefully approached the fallen figure.
He stared into the eyes of Carlos Jackson, petty thief, small-time con man, and twelve-year-old sixth grader. Next to his body was the pistol he had tried to off a cop with, the last act the boy would ever attempt.
The Shooting Review Board called it a good shoot. The black community called it police brutality and a travesty of justice. The police psychologist they sent him to called it an unfortunate incident. Underwood didn’t care what anyone called it. All he could think about was looking into those unseeing eyes, already glazed in death.
His mood turned surly and unresponsive. When Ellen tried to get him to open up and talk about it, he refused and tuned her out. Neglected, she turned to friends for the warmth he used to provide.
Slowly he learned to deal with the guilt, but the damage to his marriage had been done. His attempts at repairing it were repulsed, the same way he had refused Ellen’s offers of help earlier. Finally he gave up trying and immersed himself in the job. The marriage had limped along for almost five years before Ellen had walked out last spring, arm-in-arm with another man.
