Dead of Knight

by William R. Potter

  “Oh, shit!” He hammered the set with his palm, once, twice, until the screen grew black. He stood breathing in long deep breathes.

  The work of a Soldier of Justice would always attract media attention. This was clearly an aspect he needed to get accustomed to. “It’s okay,” he whispered.”

  He turned and his gaze moved to his bureau’s top shelf. He saw a bottle of hand cream, a model of the U.S.S. Enterprise and a Venus flytrap plant under a plexi-glass globe. His eye paused on the bottle, but then he changed his mind and shook his head. He opened the top drawer and removed a small foam container. He lifted the dome, placed the lidless container beside the plant, and lowered it again. Several flies flew out and he waited until one became ensnared in the plant.

  Knight could hear sirens in the distance, probably fire trucks. Downstairs the phone rang; his Mom’s line. The sirens wailed closer, the phone clanged louder and he clamped his hands over his ears.

  “Mother, answer the phone!”

  Outside, he heard the hiss of truck airbrakes, and a deep-voiced man barking orders. His room flashed red and blue, red and blue. His mother screamed.

  “Nate. Your car’s on fire! Your car’s on fire!”

  He was already at the window watching angry flames lick the hood and roof of his Nova. Thick black smoke reached skyward. Firefighters strung out a hose from a ladder truck, charged the line, and adjusted the nozzle to a wide fan. The man on the hose had a grin on his face as he waved the spray across the vehicle. A colleague raised an axe and smashed the driver’s side window. Hose-man stuffed the line into the passenger compartment, thoroughly soaking the interior. White steam rose from his car and swirled in an updraft.

  He moved from the window, closed his eyes, and blocked out the sounds from the street. He heard the pathetic buzzing from the insect wedged in the pocket of the flytrap.

  “Nate! The firemen want to talk to you,” his mother called.

  His mother had already served iced tea to two firefighters in the living room by the time he walked reluctantly down the stairs. The first was the square-jawed giant who had leveled the axe through his car window. The other was a black woman who reminded him of an Amazon.

  “You are the registered owner?” Square Jaw asked.

  He nodded.

  “The arson investigator is on the way,” Amazon said. “It seems likely that this fire was deliberately set. Do you know of anyone who might have done this?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Sir?” She paused, her brow creased in query.

  “I um—I don’t know. I just got the thing in April.”

  “Anyway, it’s a total loss,” Square Jaw said, moving for the door.

  “Please wait for the arson investigator to arrive. He’ll have more in-depth questions.”

  The firefighters left his home. He looked out the window at his Nova. A wispy haze was still rising from its charred hulk. The paint was almost all gone, the tires melted, the windows shattered, and it stunk with a burnt chemical smell.

  He could hear his heartbeat thump in his ears. He clenched his fists. “I’m going out—on my bike.”

  “But, Nate, the fire lady—person, said to wait for the investigator.”

  “I’ve got—I’ve got things to do, Mom.”

  He had lied when he said he didn’t know who might have torched his car. It was Sean Moore. It had to be. Moore had burned a teacher’s car back in junior year for failing him in Biology. If he had done it once, he could certainly do it again.

  He jogged across the front lawn, made a quick right, and headed for the garage. Inside the car park, he checked the pressure of his bike tires and then climbed the workbench beside the washer and drier. Between two boxes, on the top shelf, was his special backpack. He stuffed a blue and red blanket into the pack and then slung the bag over his shoulder. A minute later, he rode north up Blanchard Avenue.

  He had already discovered Moore’s daily routine. He’d made sure of it after their altercation at the Thirsty Gull.

  He rode hard and fast all the way to a vacant lot about a block from Moore’s home. The lot featured a narrow creek with two inches of murky, stagnant water. Near the edge of the creek, he gathered wet mud in a pile a foot and a half wide and five feet long. He fashioned the soil as if he was making a sand mermaid at the beach and then covered the form with the blanket.

  He glanced at his watch. Sean Moore would be there in thirty minutes to walk and toilet his dog. Moore would pay for destroying his Chevy; there was no doubt of that. Everyone who had done him wrong would meet with justice. Damian Knight was the judge and jury, and the sentence would be severe.

  He pulled on a baseball cap and dark Ray-Ban sunglasses. It wasn’t the outfit but it was enough to hide his identity from Moore. Knight then sat down beside the blanketed silhouette and waited until he heard Moore approach, talking to his dog. Moore would follow the animal as it sniffed and defecated along the creek. When his target was within ten yards, Knight stood up and spoke.

  “Hey, I think maybe I found something. A dead body, I think.”

  “Shit! No way.” Moore moved quickly to where Knight stood. “Where, man?”

  “Right there. Under the blanket.” He worried that Moore might recognize him despite his disguise, but so far it seemed to be working.

  “Jesus, there might be a reward or something,” Moore said. He knelt to pull back the sheet.

  When Moore bent over, an area of bare skin opened up between his jean-jacket and sweatpants. Knight grinned at Moore’s ass crack. He reached into the pack and pulled out something that looked like a VCR remote control. He moved quickly toward Moore and stabbed the remote at the exposed skin on Moore’s back. There was a bright electrical flash and z-zap! Moore’s body arched and doubled back until he fell onto the creek bank. Knight stood over the motionless Moore and smiled when Moore’s body convulsed.

  Chapter 12

  Jack Staal gulped bottled water and struggled against his need to smoke. A tech crew had set up the phones in the West Precinct conference room. Channel Nine was the only network able to broadcast the video clip from the 24-Seven on their noon news. Three others channels would interrupt regular programming to run the story as soon as they were ready and again on their six o’clock and late shows, if necessary. The piece would include a tip line number.

  The News anchor gave as much background as her writers had scraped together and called the man in the fuzzy clip a person of interest in the Birthday Boy case. The faxes were shown and Jim Dell’s composite sketches faded out as the segment ended.

  Staal shook his head. Word around 565 was that the Mayor had called the Chief Constable to pressure the squad to make an arrest. The public was restless, and the press was buzzing about the police’s inability to catch the city’s worst serial killer in decades.

  “The phones are set,” Rachael Gooch said when she found Staal. “Pitman wants as many of us as we can spare taking calls, as well.”

  “How nice of him to include us local-yokels.”

  Staal looked around the conference table. He sat with Gooch, Hayes, Fraser, Wakamatsu, and Barnes on one side of a table, with nine members of IHIT ranged around the other. The room was loud, the volume increasing as everyone competed to be heard.

  Staal leaned close to Cameron Wakamatsu’s ear. “You ever sit on one of these?”

  “Nope. Not like this,” Wakamatsu answered.

  “You have to weed out the crap and draw out the info from the more timid players who are afraid to make themselves heard.”

  Wakamatsu nodded.

  Staal’s line flashed. “Hanson Police Department tip line. Do you have any information?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I got something for you, dude. That guy—on the news. It’s Pee Wee Herman, man!”

  Staal looked at the call display screen on his phone. It said, H. Hanlon. “Mr. Hanlon, if you have anything pertinent, then say so. If not; get off the damn line!”

  The line went dead, and he h
ung up. He glanced around the table noticing that most of the others were fielding calls as well. He began the next call with the same spiel. “Hello, anyone there?”

  After a long pause, a man’s voice said, “Yeah, I’m here. That guy on TV.”

  “Yes. Do you recognize him, sir?”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s...um...it’s my, ah, brother, Mark.”

  “What is your name sir?”

  “Joel Pandoffo.”

  “Mr. Pandoffo. Are you sure you recognize the man in the video?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t seen the piece-of-shit in a couple years, but it’s Mark.”

  “I see. Do you have some beef with your brother, Mr. Pandoffo?”

  “Well yeah. That son-of-a-bitch owes me twelve hundred bucks!”

  Staal sighed. “Look, Joel. You’re wasting my time with this bullshit. If you want to be a collar for impeding a police investigation, keep this up!”

  The line switched to dial tone.

  Staal lost his patience after three more useless calls; a mother ratting on her son, a wife turning in her husband, and a ten-year-old who claimed Knight was his father. His line grew quiet and he overheard Max Barnes speaking.

  “And how do you know this George Costanza?” Barnes asked his caller.

  “Television character, Boss,” Staal interjected.

  He took a sip of his cold coffee, ran his hand through his hair, and pushed back from the table. Only Wakamatsu and Gooch had calls. He caught Gina’s eye. She shook her head. A minute later his line flashed.

  “That guy from the news video. I think I recognize him from work.”

  Staal jotted down the caller’s name and number. She sounded caucasian, maybe fifty years old. “What is the name of this co-worker? And where do you work, Ms. Jenkins?”

  “His name is Francis Hennessey. I...we work at the DMV. I don’t think he works for the Department. He works for a custodial company.”

  “I see. Have you had any personal problems with Hennessey; a harassment suit or the like?”

  “No, Detective, nothing like that. I hardly know him. He is a strange one, and he looks a great deal like the man from the news. He’s about my height, five-seven, and skinny. I’ve even heard that he has a criminal record.”

  “How long have you worked with him?”

  “I wouldn’t say we work together. I work eight to four, and he cleans up from three to eleven. Detective, I really think you need to talk to him. He just isn’t right, if you get my meaning. One of my girlfriends said he was arrested for rape some years ago.”

  “I understand. This information sounds very good, Ms. Jenkins. We will be looking into this immediately. I highly recommend that you don’t mention this conversation to anyone.”

  Staal wrote down Leanne Jenkin’s home and work number, as well as her supervisor’s number. “Francis Hennessey,” he whispered.

  Fifteen minutes later, all fourteen phone lines were silent. Staff-Sergeant Pitman asked if anyone had anything solid. Staal didn’t speak up.

  Constable Raymond Sheppard was the only Mountie to share anything. “Got an Andrew Jones...a longshoreman. Seems thin but his foreman says he fits the description.”

  “Nobody got shit?” Murdocco looked at Gooch and then around the table.

  “Nothing,” Barnes said.

  Dionne shook her head and glanced at Chin. The other team members exchanged disappointed glanced and began to gather their papers and note pads. Staal signaled to the Hanson squad to meet in the coffee room. He noticed that the Integrated Team was leaving, as well.

  “Fuck, that was lame,” Fraser said as he moved through the coffee room door.

  “I got one call from a Steven West. He sounded like he might have something, but he wouldn’t name any names,” Wakamatsu admitted.

  “Try calling the guy back in a few,” Gina said.

  “I got a bunch of shit,” Ken Fraser said. “How about you, Jack?”

  “Yeah, might have something. I’m gonna make some calls on it. I’m looking at a Francis Hennessey, works afternoons at the DMV. You want to run him, Rachael? He might have a sheet. Gina, maybe you can do a web search on Damian Knight. See what you get. Ken, look Hennessey up in the White Pages.” To Barnes he said, “Is Wakamatsu with us for a while, Boss? He can stay on the phones if he is.”

  “Yeah, he can work it for the rest of the shift,” Barnes said. “This Hennessey look good?”

  “Yeah, I think we should run with it until the six o’clock news at least. When I get a home address, I’m thinking me and Fraser should head over and take a look.”

  “Do it. Everybody else, get on with what Staal came up with,” Barnes said. “I’m going to let Pitman in on what we have.”

  Staal and the other HPS detectives moved to the Major Crimes table and he dialed the number of Leanne Jenkins’s work supervisor. He knew that the DMV fit the profile of the killer’s workplace. In a few minutes, he would have a vibe either way about Hennessey. After three transfers, Staal was connected to Peter Voshe.

  “Yes, Detective. Leanne is one of my best. Does data entry. Never late, sick or otherwise,” Voshe said.

  “What about Francis Hennessey?”

  “Oh, Hennessey. Well, he is a contract custodian with Sampson Sanitation. He’s okay I guess, works afternoons.”

  “Does Hennessey have any problems with your employees?”

  “Not really. My assistant complains that she just gets—well, how do you say it? Creeped out by him. I can’t really explain it, Detective. The man is just strange. Most of the women here stay clear of him.”

  “Do you have a number and a contact name at Sampson?”

  Staal ended the call and dialed an R. Clarkson at SS.

  “Mr. Clarkson. I’m calling about Francis Hennessey.”

  “Hennessey, yes. Not one of my smartest hirings,” he said. Clarkson spoke with an American accent.

  “Problems?”

  “Yes, Voshe at the DMV reported several late days, and a couple of no-shows. It was the same thing when he worked for me at a transport firm.”

  Staal asked about sexual harassment beefs on Hennessey and for the name of the trucking company and hung up. “Anybody else have anything yet?”

  “Almost a thousand sites for Damian Knight. From a Navy helicopter pilot to an online gay dating service to a character in an adventure-mystery novel,” Hayes said.

  “Anything with the dating service?”

  “Not really. They use passwords instead of names.”

  “What about the novels? Some kind of Batman rip-off?”

  “No, they’re original novels first published in 1979. Twelve volumes were released, each written by Dickson Collins. I got most of this from Collins’s web site. His lead character is a Dale Janssen by day and, of course, Damian Knight after dark.”

  Staal signaled Hayes to continue.

  “He’s a black-trench-coat wearing vigilante who takes out killers that the cops can’t catch.”

  “Not very original. Any chance he uses a belt around the neck to kill his vics?”

  “Nothing like our guy. Knight uses a crossbow and dips his bolts in Poison Dart Frog toxin. Listen to this excerpt from the first novel, called Damian Knight—Soldier of Justice.” Gina clicked on a different site. “Knight raised the bow and whispered, ‘Judgment will be swift.’ The crossbow bolt sliced across the distance, striking Donnelly, tore open his sternum, and pierced the heart. Beside his mark, Knight left two playing cards, Ace of Spades over the Joker.”

  “Okay,” Staal stood and thought about the storyline for a few seconds. “I think it’s safe to say our killer is fantasizing about this character.”

  “He’s changed the MO to suite his own needs,” Gina said.

  “Crossbow is a bullshit murder weapon,” Fraser said. “How you gonna conceal it, the fuckin’ size of them.”

  “Let’s get copies of these books by the end of the day,” Gooch said.

  “All dozen of them are for sale in e-book form
on this site,” Wakamatsu said.

  “Good,” Staal nodded. “Cam, you’re a quick reader, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Download the books and take notes while you go,” Gooch said.

  Max Barnes returned with a pot of coffee. Gooch summarized what the Hanson detectives had so far and asked Barnes about updating IHIT.

  “The team has already moved out,” Barnes said.

  “Nice of them to say goodbye,” Staal shook his head. “What did they say about Hennessey?”

  “Pitman had no interest in Hennessey. They were all fired up about some new information on Mathew Douglas,” Barnes said and shrugged.

  “Douglas?”

  “Yeah, two calls came in from bookstore employees.” Staal nodded for Barnes to continue. “One said Douglas had a long black jacket in his locker. The other mentioned him clipping articles about Birthday Boy from the paper.”

  “Not exactly a confession,” Staal said. However, he couldn’t fully discredit the direction the team was following.

  “I called Stephen West. Cammy’s guy. Nothing there,” Fraser added.

  Staal nodded to Fraser and turned to Gooch.

  “Hennessey’s got a pretty good sheet. It just came back from the database,” Gooch said, glancing at the others to make sure they were keeping up. “This guy’s been in the system since juvee,” He was popped for indecent exposure in ‘89 and ‘90, got probation. Then statutory rape in ‘91 and before that case went to trial...sexual assault in ‘92. Did six years. Then in ‘01 it was brutal assault—did six months. In ’05 he was busted after a date said he drugged her—she had rohipnol in her system...case was dropped. DUI in ’07 and ’08.”

  “Shit, sounds like he’s gone up the ladder to murder,” Staal said. “Anything with the prints?”

  “His prints don’t match the ones Drummond took from the fax machines.”

  “Jesus, how’d I know you were gonna say that? Still, I’m not ready to give up on this guy yet.”