The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  He seemed relaxed, almost sluggish. Sitting down upon the couch, he brushed a crumb from his leg and took another sip of water. He then began to stare off into the distance, not at the birds, the furniture, or the many books that lined the shelves, but at space itself.

  As far as Jack could see he seemed to have relaxed his focus and not a thought was going through his diabolical mind.

  Placing his right arm behind his head, he began rubbing his left earlobe, which annoyed Jack to no end. Why not use his left hand? What was wrong with him?

  Continuing to fool with his ear as if it were some sort of pastime, he appeared perfectly content, even childlike.

  After about ten minutes of this Jack felt not only irritated but more sure than ever that this was his man.

  Was this how he spent his evenings? Where was the television and radio? Where were the magazines and newspapers? Yes, he had books, but as opposed to being on the end tables or sofa, cracked to a certain page, they were within the bookcase on the other side of the room, where they had probably sat since he had moved in. They were mere mementoes of college and youth, reminders of better times, relics of potential.

  The more Jack studied him, the more deranged he seemed. For nearly an hour he just sat there in a kind of demented nirvana, and then, without warning, he popped up and left the room.

  As for Jack, he had barely moved since he had gotten there, and as a result was freezing.

  “Maybe I should leave,” he ruminated, “but I’m so well positioned.”

  More than that, he realized that once he left he wasn’t likely to return. The fact that he had mustered up the courage to go even this far was amazing to him. Thus, he wanted to make the most of it. After all, what had he really achieved, aside from reinforcing some rather self-serving speculations.

  “I’ll give it another hour or so,” Jack thought to himself.

  Just then Azam reappeared. Next to him was a sign which read Fatima’s Finches, Going out of Business Sale, Half Off.

  “That would explain the birds,” Jack lamentably reflected. More problematic, however, was the fact that Azam was waving a gun. “Don’t you forking move,” he shouted.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jack didn’t know whether he was more surprised at the weapon or the woman – presumably Fatima. “Come,” she begged, while attempting to pull Azam into the bedroom. Wearing only a bra and panties, she was tall yet voluptuous, with olive skin, wild hair, and sultry eyes. “Please,” she shouted, concerned that Azam would be arrested.

  Just then a squad car drove past the entrance to the alley. Traveling slowly, it appeared to be pulling over.

  “Damn it,” Jack groaned. “One of them must have called the police.”

  Aside from all of the other evidence they had against him, now they could claim that he was stalking someone who just happened to sell the type of carpets used in the murders.

  With his eyes darting about for a solution, his only thought was that if they caught him, he was done for.

  “What to do, what to do?” he panicked.

  Racing down the steps would have been futile. By the time he reached the ground they’d be waiting for him. His only choice therefore was to make his way upwards. Beyond that he was lost.

  “This is not going to end well,” he irresistibly muttered, as he mounted the stairs three steps at a time.

  Once on the roof, he peeked over the edges to see where the police were. Not surprisingly, they had taken up positions near the entrance and fire escapes. One side of the building, however, was left unguarded, and for good reason. There was no way down, unless of course you happened to be a chimpanzee.

  “Shit,” Jack grumbled, having taken notice of this one option.

  Spanning the distance from the tenth floor to the ground was a thick black drainage pipe. Quickly he was upon it, scaling his way down.

  Fortunately the pipe was dry and rough, allowing him to get a good grip. Within seconds, however, he was depleted.

  “No way,” he desperately moaned, as he slid onto the eighth-floor ledge. Although he had initially planned to climb all the way down, his hands were twitching and his legs jelly. Fortunately, he was near a window, which as far as he could see was attached to a dark empty chamber.

  “Go ahead,” he urged himself.

  Thankfully, the window was unlocked, allowing him to gently step into what appeared to be a guest room. Quickly, he walked over to the door and snuck a look down the hall. Beyond the living room, he could see an elderly man and woman seated at the kitchen table.

  To the whistling of the teapot, the woman asked her husband whether he’d like a cup.

  “But I just took the pill,” he responded.

  “Who told you to?”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Can’t I just drink my tea in peace?”

  “What am I going to do with this?” said the man, referring to his erection.

  “Oh, enough with that,” groaned his wife. “Just when I thought you’d finally given up, they had to come up with that.”

  “Don’t you want to feel young?”

  “I’m not young – and neither are you. Can’t we just relax?”

  Not appearing particularly disappointed, the old man got up and walked into the living room. “Let’s have the tea in here. I think it’s time for Murder She Wrote.”

  “Beautiful,” Jack thought to himself. He’d simply remain where he was until the coast was clear.

  Just then there was a knock at the door. It was the police.

  Sliding himself under the bed, he was engulfed in dust. He needed to cough, spit, and most of all sneeze, but through a true act of will, he stopped himself, the result of which was that his sinuses burned as if he had inhaled a tablespoon of pepper.

  “Cover up,” cautioned the old woman, as her husband went to the door.

  Having explained the situation to the couple, the officer was allowed in to take a look.

  “It’s just a precaution,” he said. “He’s probably long gone.”

  With his nose running and his eyes welling up with tears, Jack had the absurd, undignified, tortured expression of one who had just taken a pinch of snuff. “What am I going to do?” he fretted.

  Clearly the officer intended to search every room, meaning that he’d probably take a quick peek under the bed.

  Still feeling the effects of the aborted sneeze, Jack made his way over to the closet, where he figured he might at least have a chance. Leaving the door about six inches ajar – just enough to ward off suspicion, but not enough for a decent look – he quietly squeezed his way behind the dense rack of clothing.

  “We would have heard something,” grumbled the old man, as the cop entered the guest room.

  “Just doing my job,” said the officer, as he quickly checked under the bed with his flashlight.

  Grimacing at this point, Jack could hear the officer walking toward the closet. Fortunately, his plan worked like a charm. Not the least bit suspicious, the police officer pointed his flashlight through the preexisting opening, took a quick glance, and then moved on to the other rooms. Two minutes later he was gone, leaving Jack with the problem of getting out of the building, but this proved surprisingly easy.

  Within about two hours the old couple was asleep, allowing him easy access to the front door. The only question was whether the police were still around, but this was doubtful.

  Were they really going to waste valuable resources on what amounted to nothing more than a man perched on a fire escape? Having seen him through the blinds, Azam probably couldn’t even offer up a description, but just in case, he borrowed the old man’s raincoat, fedora, and cane.

  Quietly exiting through the front door, he entered the elevator and took it down to the lobby, where to his surprise he found that the previous doorman had told the truth – his replacement was indeed unreliable. With his cheek planted against the reception desk, he snored away as if he were in his own bed.

  “Incred
ible,” mused Jack, as he limped his way through the revolving doors. For not a cop was in sight, but instead of reveling in his remarkable escape, all he could think about was how wrong he had been.

  “I knew it,” he thought to himself. His gut had told him that the guy was clean, but he had to be clever, read up on the matter, weigh the evidence – as if he were qualified for this sort of thing.

  Driving back to the hotel, he wondered what had caused him to be so convinced. After all what did he really know? Sure Azam had been an only child, maybe even adopted. So what. For all Jack knew, he was the most popular kid in his village, making the whole scenario about his growing up angry and alone nothing more than the ramblings of a weak mind.

  “Asshole,” Jack cursed.

  Thinking back on it, he couldn’t imagine what he was thinking. Azam had a steady job and an advanced degree. That alone should have been a clue.

  Serial killers don’t finish school. As smart as some may be, the prospect of having to forego their immediate interests for such a time as to complete their education, much less graduate studies, is antithetical to them. They think too much of themselves and can’t imagine anyone knowledgeable enough or wise enough to warrant that kind of sacrifice.

  “Pelletier,” he said. Now it seemed to fit, especially since he had eliminated his only other suspect. Nevertheless, there were a couple of inconvenient details he had to deal with; first and foremost was the fact that he had what appeared to be a steady job. That could easily be explained, however, by his family connections, without which he’d probably be knocking around from place to place, just like most of the other nuts he had read about.

  Next there was the existence of Pelletier’s family, which to Jack at least bespoke some degree of normalcy, but that wasn’t unprecedented. Look at the BTK killer.

  What troubled him though was the fact that Pelletier’s wife was a lawyer, which he imagined would make her somewhat less vulnerable to deceit or manipulation.

  “I don’t know,” he despondently whispered, but then he recalled Pelletier’s fingernails and again felt that he may be onto something. They were practically nonexistent, which is exactly what one might expect from someone worried about trace amounts of blood.

  Nevertheless, he was again getting ahead of himself. The truth was that he didn’t know anything, which was beginning to get to him, not because of his lack of information, but for the feeble way he had conducted himself.

  If he could have just thought of a few more pointed questions, maybe he’d have something more to go on. What’s the kid’s name? Where does he go to school? Have you ever worked anywhere else? How long have you been in New York? In retrospect it all seemed so obvious.

  “Never a timely idea,” Jack told himself. “That’ll be my epitaph.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Not knowing how to proceed, Jack went bar hopping that night – just for the purpose of establishing an alibi of course. Nevertheless, he was careful. Not speaking to a soul, he instead collected photographs and receipts, and by the time the evening was over he was again feeling rather optimistic.

  Stumbling in at about four, he fell into bed thinking about the carpets. “Why the cheap one, why the inconsistency?” he ruminated.

  With the gin in his belly slowly working its way into his brain, he was besieged with fragments of images, bits of sounds, and snippets of sensations. The grotesque protuberance of Pelletier’s Adam’s apple, his haughty comments about school, the wild swirls of his Manet, the all too normal picture of his family, the cluttered warehouse, the biting aroma of eastern spices, the maddening tinkle of Azam’s keys, the beautifully shaped eyes of his girlfriend, the shotgun, the roof, the police – it all came back to him, over and over again, both accurately and not so much so, until finally a definite idea began to form.

  Where was the usual chatter about how smart his kid was? Where were the childish paintings, the collages, the homemade father’s day cards? Where were the wedding photos, the baby pictures, the shots of their last vacation? No. Something was wrong here. Pelletier had a coldness about him, a loneliness, an anger, which when taken together spelled violence.

  Periodically waking to the sound of his own gasps, Jack’s dreams quickly turned bloody. Hiding in some dark corner, he was for some reason drawn to Pelletier’s eyes – they were maniacal, possessed, demonic. Standing over his wife, he slashed her, over and over again, until nothing was left but what appeared to be a dripping side of beef.

  “Now it’s your turn,” uttered Pelletier.

  Jack, however, was unmoved. As a matter of fact, he was confident. Emerging from the shadows with uncharacteristic poise, he somehow felt that he was the one in control, which indeed was the case. Offering the haft of the knife with a deferential bow of the head, Pelletier ritualistically wiped the blood from his hands onto Jack’s face, creating a kind of war paint. With sloppy red lines running from Jack’s eyes to his jaw, a solicitous, knowing, asymmetric smile came to his face.

  “Ahhhh,” he screamed, waking himself up, but he was drunk and tired. Thus, it wasn’t long before he again drifted back to sleep, the result which was the same awful scene, and so it went, hour after terrifying hour, until finally it was morning.

  “I got to get out of here,” he urgently thought to himself. With the room seeming almost contaminated by his long stream of nightmares, he opened the windows, took a shower, then headed out for breakfast.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chowing down on a mushroom and egg white omelette at the internet café, Jack thought of Azam and how guilty he had appeared. “I got noth’n,” he grumbled to himself.

  At any particular moment one could hear the tinkle of silver on porcelain, causing Jack to miss the muted functionality of paper cups and wooden swizzle sticks.

  “What’s up?” said the waitress, in pink nylons, purple sneakers, a short black skirt, and violet blouse.

  “Not much. How about you – find any pennies?”

  “Two this morning,” she beamed.

  “Your father’s looking out for you.”

  “You seem like a chicken,” she told him, with a thoughtful expression.

  “What?”

  The woman tightened her lips the way people do when they’re concentrating. “The Chinese zodiac.”

  “Oh,” he chuckled. “Well if it means the same thing in Chinese as it does in English, I suppose I am.”

  Still scrutinizing him, she wasn’t really listening. “Although you could be a rat. What year were you born?”

  Having already come to the conclusion that once his identity was blasted over the airwaves, he’d have to again change both his address and appearance, Jack didn’t see any harm in playing along. “1970,” he replied.

  This concerned the woman. “Oh, you’re a dog.”

  “I’ll take that over rat any day.”

  Throwing her shiny black hair to the side, she was utterly serious. “It means you’re honest, but can be cold and negative. What’s your birthday?”

  “March 14th.”

  Now she smiled, revealing two cavernous dimples. “Ohhh, you’re a rabbit.”

  “I thought you said I was a dog.”

  The idea that you could be more than one thing at a time didn’t seem to faze her. “You go by the year and the date. Rabbit’s one of the best. They’re kind and artistic, but can also be lazy and moody.”

  This got Jack to pondering.

  “Wait,” she interjected, as if a light bulb had gone off in her head.

  Motioning him to slide further into the booth, she sat down beside him and started playing with the computer.

  Dancing across the keyboard, her fingers were long and elegant. Without a swollen joint or broken nail, she proceeded as if the answer were urgent. “Ok, what time were you born?”

  “Exactly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “In the morning?”

  Jack had no idea. “Lunchtime I think.�
�

  Her impossibly black eyes shimmered in anticipation. “Like at 1:00, 2:00?”

  If he was to preserve any shred of anonymity, his visits here would have to end, but for now he was enjoying himself. “I think 1:00.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, why not?”

  “I knew it. You’re a ram.”

  “I think I like this game. I’m getting tougher by the minute.”

  Staring at him in amazement, she acted as if he had won the lottery. “That’s good. That goes with rabbit and dog.”

  “And?”

  “It means you’re a calm, nice guy, with good leadership ability.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m a tiger, horse, and rabbit, which people say goes good with dogs and rams.”

  Jack could care less, but loved listening to her. “Even so, I’d hate to see them all in a cage.”

  Noticing that he was staring at her, she suddenly seemed a bit uncomfortable. “Ok, now you know.”

  “Thanks,” said Jack.

  Having slid out of the booth, she told him that she’d check to see if his coffee was ready.

  “No sugar,” he reminded her.

  “I know.”

  Logging into the prepaid service he had used as an investigator, he typed in “John S. Pelletier,” and within seconds he had a history of his arrests, jobs, automobile registrations, addresses and phone numbers. “Hmm,” Jack uttered.

  Although never arrested, Pelletier wasn’t as stable in his work history as Jack had initially assumed. Up until just three years before, he had held no less than eight jobs over various parts of the country, including realtor, stockbroker, janitor in a zoo, manager of a sporting goods store, and even exterminator, and the pattern would have probably continued, but for the fact that his father had died and left him the business.

  It was all beginning to add up. The incomplete education, the jumping around, the alienation from his father – these were just the sorts of things he had read about. The only aspect of his life he still had questions about concerned his wife and child; unfortunately, they weren’t coming up in the system. Was it possible that he had lied?