The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  Retrieving his car from the parking garage, he hopped onto the FDR and headed toward the Triboro Bridge. Assuming she went straight home, which would have been her normal practice, she’d reach her stop by about 5:15.

  At first Jack thought he’d never make it, but traffic is a puzzle better left to mystics. Despite the blinding mist, the disgorgement of millions of tired workers, and even the fact that Jack had a deadline, the bridge was inexplicably clear, allowing him make it to her stop by 4:30 without even having to speed. Now all he had to do was figure out what to say.

  Obviously, he couldn’t just tell her that one of the two women who had signed his year book had been murdered. That wouldn’t convince her of anything.

  The problem was that if he told her what he needed to – that he had also recently been out with another victim – she’d immediately tell her cop husband.

  Ultimately, however, he came to the conclusion that his only choice was to come clean. His plan therefore was to explain what a bind he was in and how much he was risking just by coming to her. In sum, he’d appeal to her sense of friendship.

  “Go away for a few weeks,” he’d tell her. “But don’t tell anyone, not even Phil, and by the time you get back, everything will be ok.”

  Unfortunately, he was imagining her as she used to be, before he had again pushed her away, before she had met Phil, before she had gotten married. Back then he had a hold on her, whereas today he was just another lousy ex-boyfriend – well maybe not that lousy. He did after all introduce her to her husband.

  Thinking about this, he let out a sardonic chuckle. Until about five years ago, he still worried about the terrible effect he’d have on the women he was about to break up with, but that was before he learned of just how very replaceable he really was. Within weeks it seemed they’d find someone new, and not just another jackass with a dead end job. Rather, it was usually someone better looking and more successful, making him wonder whether he had made a mistake.

  Just once he would have liked to have seen one of them take a step backward. As it was, however, he realized that he was never quite the person he thought he was, meaning that his idea about convincing Susan to disappear for a while, without discussing the matter with her husband, suddenly appeared absurd. As a matter of fact, he’d be lucky if she even spoke to him, but again he was probably overestimating his importance.

  “Where the hell is she?” he grumbled. Having been sitting there for nearly an hour now, he began to worry, even while he realized that there were a limitless amount of perfectly reasonable explanations.

  Parked under the trestle, Jack noticed a man trip the spring to his umbrella. “Good,” he thought to himself. Susan hated to get her clothes wet. Perhaps she’d actually get into the car with him.

  Peering into every crevice, ally, and parked car, he wondered whether the killer was waiting for her, but as far as he could see there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  To his right was an empty barber shop. Through the glass was a grey haired fellow in a white smock. Sweeping the floors, he appeared wistful, almost sad.

  To his left was a falafel stand with a couple of patrons in front of it. Huddled under the broken down awning, they crammed loaded pitas into their mouths as they waited for the next train. With pickled vegetables and hot sauce dripping from their lips, Jack thought it unlikely that they were about to murder someone. Then again how could he be so sure? Perhaps he had been spotted and the killer was just trying to throw him off his trail.

  “No,” Jack reconsidered. They’re enjoying it too much. As a matter of fact, catching a whiff of the fried chick peas and fava beans, he could have gone for one himself.

  “Six thirty five,” he impatiently mumbled, as he glanced at the clock.

  Every now and then a train would arrive and a spurt of commuters would trickle down the steps in front of him. They were self absorbed, distracted, hurried, so much so that he truly believed that he could have danced naked and few would have noticed.

  “No wonder the killer’s still out there,” Jack observed. “Everyone’s got their head up their ass.”

  Glancing into the mirror at his thick black whiskers, he wondered whether Susan would even recognize him. When last they were together his watery brown green eyes were submerged beneath a thick layer of flab, but now as a result of all the weight he had lost, they appeared large and desperate.

  Opening the window, he wiped some water from the top of the side view mirror and pushed back his ink stained hair. He looked feral, intense, scary even, but somehow he liked it.

  Just then a strange notion came into his head. Suddenly he realized that he was acting exactly as the killer would.

  Laughing reflexively, but without humor, he turned on the radio.

  How could it be that all of the murders occurred while he was alone? Was it possible that there was another side to him?

  “Of course not,” he told himself, and yet with Jack there was always a shred of doubt. The problem was that he was never quite sure of himself. Owing to both a weak memory and poor eye for detail, he always felt he was missing something, especially where it concerned his own past. From the time he was an adolescent he sensed something about himself he couldn’t quite explain, something dark, something cryptic.

  Having divulged as much to his parents, he was told that he was just being silly and that whatever misgivings he had were more the product of imprecise thinking and an overly active imagination. Whatever the cause, however, Jack often had the vague sense that he had done something wrong.

  Had he left the stove on, insulted his boss, been caught staring at a client’s breasts? “Stop thinking about it,” he’d tell himself, but sometimes it got so bad that he’d imagine that he had struck someone with his car – as if he wouldn’t have noticed it at the time it happened.

  “What was that bump last night?” he’d ask himself. “Was I looking when I backed up? Where was that hit and run accident I heard about? Was I drunk?”

  Having been raised to believe he had his father’s chin, his mother’s sense of humor, and his uncle’s shoulders, only to learn that in all likelihood they were all lies, he was plagued by sense that nothing was quite as it seemed.

  “Big deal,” he used tell himself. Even if he was adopted, it wouldn’t change who he was. Who he was, however, had never been an issue.

  Watching one of the men from the falafel stand race for the bus, Jack’s neck began to tighten. For not only was he an only child – and yes, probably adopted – but a whole bunch other things that he cared not to think about.

  “Knock it off,” he admonished, as he sat there in the rain, but as much he tried, he couldn’t help but to compare himself to the men he had read about in the bookstore. Not only was he uneducated and unable to hold a job, but prone to fantasy, especially when it came to women, who as of late kind of pissed him off. In other words he met the profile.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he said out loud. At the same time, however, he recalled the sense of power he experienced when he thought that Susan might be frightened of him.

  That cinched it. He had to stay. He had to see it through. Rolling down the window, he let the cold misty air dampen his face.

  He was just a bit edgy, he told himself. Maybe he wasn’t eating enough or getting enough sleep. Whatever it was, he was fairly certain he hadn’t killed anyone. As bad as his memory might have been, that wasn’t something he’d forget.

  “And you’re too damn stupid to fit the profile anyway,” he reminded himself. “These guys are clever, savvy, good with details.”

  This brought a grin to his face, but just as quickly his expression turned to stone. It was Susan.

  Still thin, still pretty, she was holed up at the bottom of the enclosed stairs trying to open her umbrella.

  “Susan,” Jack called out, just as she began to walk.

  At first she ignored him, increasing her pace, but cruising along side of her, he identified himself, which resulted in a double ta
ke.

  “Oh my God,” she giggled. “Is that really you; what did you do to yourself?”

  “No good?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Jack reached over and pushed the door open “Get in; I’ll give you a lift.”

  Without retracting the umbrella, she got in, scratching Jack’s ceiling with the spokes. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Cocking the wet rod, she placed it on the floor and then pulled down the mirror to look at her hair. “It’s always something with you.”

  Noticing how the seam in her skirt separated over her thigh, he recalled the feel of her body. “I’ve got something to tell you. It involves Jan.”

  The mere mention of her name brought a scowl to her face. “The drama queen – what about her?”

  Jack pulled over. “You haven’t heard?”

  “Oh my God. Tell me you didn’t get back with her.”

  “No…”

  “Well that’s a relief. I don’t know what you ever saw in her.”

  “She was a good person.”

  “Oh please – remember that guy you tried to fix me up with after we broke up – that wonderful friend of hers.”

  “Mark? What are you kidding? He’s an oral surgeon.”

  “He looked like a Walrus!”

  “That was the mustache, which if you ask me was pretty impressive for high school.”

  “What about his teeth,” she commented, as she pushed out her upper jaw and bit her lower lip. “He looked like he belonged on an iceberg gnawing on a piece of salmon.”

  Jack laughed. He liked her like this.

  “Did you really think I’d be so crushed that you always had to throw in a consolation prize?”

  “How is Phil anyway?”

  “With him you did a little better.”

  “Maybe a little too good.”

  A relaxed smile came over her face. “So what’s the deal with Jan?”

  “I don’t know where to begin. Haven’t you been watching the news?”

  “Do you know me?”

  A somber expression came over Jack’s face. “Alright then, I’m just going to say it.”

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  “You’ve heard of the Cleopatra Killer?”

  “Yes…”

  “Well, she was the last victim.”

  Susan looked as though she was about to become sick. “What?”

  Jack hugged her.

  “I feel terrible. You know I was just kidding.”

  “Of course.”

  Her eyes began to moisten. “How could this happen?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think it was an accident that he picked her.”

  “When’s the funeral. I’ll have to call Scott and Greg…”

  “Listen to me. It’s probably nothing, but you may be in danger.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think he may be going after girls from our high school – more specifically girls who signed my year book.”

  Susan became angry. “What are you trying to do, scare me?”

  “Please,” Jack said, firmly. “Pay attention. I don’t have much time.”

  Susan had never seen him like this. “Ok,” she replied, looking him squarely in the eye.

  “First I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t tell anyone what I’m about to say for a full week, not even Phil. You think you can do that?”

  Susan didn’t know how to respond.

  “I understand your reservations,” added Jack, “but my life’s on the line.”

  “Now you’re really scaring me.”

  Despite the circumstances, Jack was ashamed to find that he was enjoying himself. “Remember the second victim, Michelle Lawrence? Well, aside from whoever killed her, I’m probably the last person to see her alive. Unfortunately, it got a little ugly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She slapped me. Worse yet, there was a witness.”

  “Why’d she slap you?”

  “She said something, I said something, you know how it goes.”

  “So you’re a suspect.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what the police know, but once they find out I was the one out with her that night and that we had an argument, the rest isn’t tough to figure out.”

  Susan stared at him, visualizing, replaying his words. “So what did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did she hit you?”

  Jack slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “Nothing. What the hell are you thinking?”

  “I’m sorry,” she told him, “but I’ve been married to a cop long enough to know it’s either the boyfriend or the husband.”

  “I was on a date. That’s it. Frankly, I could have given a shit if I ever saw her again.”

  Susan snuck a glance out the window to see if there were any people around. “What about Janet? Have you seen her?”

  “Not in years.”

  Susan’s emotions were tentative and shifting. One minute she knew it couldn’t be him and the next she wasn’t so sure. “Well where were you? You don’t have an alibi?”

  Jack had anticipated sympathy or at least shock, not this. “No,” he quietly responded.

  Susan began sliding toward the door, but just as she reached for the handle, Jack pulled away, as if his body had a plan all of its own.

  “Please,” he practically shouted. “Have you ever known me to hurt a fly? I’m here to warn you. That’s all. As far as I can see, who’s ever doing this got a look at my yearbook.”

  With a racing heart and dry lips Susan could barely speak. “But what about the other women?”

  “I have no idea,” Jack softly responded. “But you know me; you know how my mind works. There’s a pattern here. I can feel it.”

  Susan saw that he was turning down her street and began to relax. “You always were a bit spooky.”

  “I’m sorry I scared you, but if you want my advice, you’ll go away for a while, until all this clears up.”

  “Do you suspect anyone?”

  “I’ve got some ideas, but nothing solid.”

  Pulling up in front of her house, Jack was comforted by the fact that she would soon be gone. “Anyway, I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks,” she said, anxious to leave. “What about you. Are you going to be alright?”

  “Sure.”

  “I appreciate your coming here.”

  “How could I not.”

  “We’ll get together when it’s all over and have a good laugh.”

  “I hope so.”

  With one foot out the door, she leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Take care,” he told her.

  It was still raining, but Susan didn’t bother to fool with her umbrella. Within moments she was out of the vehicle and fumbling with her keys.

  “She’s terrified,” Jack thought to himself.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It was about 7:00 by the time he got back to Manhattan, and he was spent, yet as much as he would have liked to have gone back to his hotel room, he thought it best to be among people.

  His first thought was the internet café, but should he?

  “Why not,” he reflected.

  Soon he’d have to change his appearance, but before he did, why not treat himself to a little more conversation.

  Taking his usual seat in the back, he removed the earphone to his portable radio so that he could better gauge his surroundings, which at that particular moment were uncomfortably placid. All at once, however, a group of students crashed through the door in a riot of giggles and declaratives. “Excellent,” Jack thought to himself, appreciating the distraction.

  On the computer screen was a contemporaneous news story with the date and time. This being the case, he decided to use his camera pen to snap a picture of not only the monitor
but the waitress – just to establish an alibi of course.

  Searching the internet, he considered how perfect it would be if the bastard struck right at that moment.

  “But what if the killer decided to suddenly pack it in?” he suddenly pondered. While most of these nuts couldn’t stop if they wanted to, Jack the Ripper did. Could history repeat itself?

  As with the present string of crimes, the Ripper’s level of brutality seemed to vary with each individual murder, the last of which was by far the most ritualized. Shortly before, however, he had sent to the police the half eaten kidney of his last victim along with the infamous note signed, “From hell.”

  In addition to commenting upon how nice it tasted, he offered the following challenge: “I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer; catch me when you can.”

  What he seemed to be saying was that their time to catch him was quickly running out. In other words, he was going to disappear, which is exactly what he did, but not before his magnum opus, a local prostitute named Mary Kelly.

  When last seen, she was said to be with a dark looking, elegantly dressed fellow, during the early morning hours of November 9th 1888. Wearing a soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes, he took the drunken woman home, and by all accounts she appeared not only unconcerned but rather jovial. “All right, my dear. Come along. You will be comfortable,” she was heard telling him.

  On the following morning she was found cut to pieces on her bed. Her face had been peeled off and her guts draped from the curtain rods. Parts of her abdomen and thighs, moreover, were placed on a table, while her uterus, kidneys, and breasts served as kind of a pillow for her nearly severed head. Meanwhile, her clothes had been neatly folded and placed on a chair beside the bed. After that the ripper was never heard from again.

  “Hi,” Jack heard, as he stared into space, and for a second he didn’t recognize her.

  Although it was just a tad below fifty degrees, she was bundled up as if she were about to start the Iditarod. Beneath a puffy bomber jacket, woolen scarf and ski cap that somehow contained all of her long black hair, she sadly told him that she was off for the evening.