The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  “We’ll find that out when we talk to him today,” Keller countered.

  “I know that. But you never know who else he might’a talked to that day, or who might’a seen somethin’.”

  Keller said she understood.

  “Take George with you. See if he can sniff out anything out of the ordinary.”

  “By ‘out of the ordinary,’ I assume you mean besides something other than a man being boiled in oil?”

  Morris just looked sternly at Keller. “I knew I should’a left your ass in DC.”

  The Crown Victoria sped along I-40 toward the exit onto 21st Avenue. The Vanderbilt Burn Center was located just south of the Vanderbilt Medical Center. Morris hoped Dupont would be able to speak to them.

  “You folks going to catch a show while you’re in town?” Cooper asked, just trying to make conversation.

  Morris had been reading through the hospital report again when Cooper asked his question. He laid the document aside and turned toward the agent.

  “Hell no we ain’t gonna catch no damn show while we’re in town!” Morris snapped. “We’re here to solve a murder case, not watch some old hillbillies pickin’ and grinnin’ and spittin’ tobacco juice on some old hound dog.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Maybe you ain’t got nothin’ better to do than chase Elvis sightin’s boy, but we do.”’

  “Yes sir.” Cooper realized that he’d asked a stupid question. “Sorry sir.”

  “You just get us to the damn burn center, boy,” Morris said. “Then you can drive us to the hotel, then take Keller and George out to Murfreesboro. You reckon you can handle that?”

  “Yes sir, I can handle that. We’ll be there in another minute or two.”

  Cooper signaled his turn off I-40 onto 21st Avenue. He caught a glimpse of George Benjamin in the back seat grinning. He warned me. He could only imagine the grief an old redneck like Morris dished out to the young black agent. Lord’a mercy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Preach woke up early Monday morning and drove his RV to the only authorized Newmar service center in Denver where he had all of the fluids changed, the front end aligned, and a complete calibration performed on his onboard computer and electrical systems. He certainly didn’t want to take the chance of breaking down on the road somewhere, especially if he had a sacrifice secured on his couch.

  After servicing his motorhome, Preach organized his notes to prepare for the next leg of his mission. He planned to leave Denver on Wednesday and drive straight through to Portland, Oregon where he was booked to preach Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights for a home mission’s pastor. Two days on the road would afford him the time he needed to seek the will of God for his next sacrifice.

  Preach studied his notes, trying to discern any information that might be helpful in identifying the next person in God’s plan. He knew how he would kill his next sacrifice. He just didn’t know who, when, or where.

  “Matthew,” Preach said aloud. “The tax collector. A publican. A sinner.”

  Preach knew that according to church history, the Apostle Matthew had died in Ethiopia. He had stayed in Jerusalem for at least fifteen years after the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and had written the Gospel of Matthew some twenty years after the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ. But church history wasn’t clear about where he had written his gospel.

  After that, Matthew left Jerusalem and went on a missionary journey where he preached the gospel to the Persians, Parthians, and the Medes. Legend had it that he died a martyr in Ethiopia, nailed to the ground with short spears and then beheaded.

  “A tax collector,” Preach muttered again. “Maybe someone who works for the IRS, or perhaps even an accountant.”

  Preach wondered what it was going to be like to kill a man in the same manner that the Apostle Matthew had died. He was still troubled by the image of Thomas Waverly lying on the ground with a lance thrust through his heart. There had been so much blood–more blood than he cared to remember. Did he have the strength it would take to literally pin a man to the ground by stabbing spears through several parts of his body which would again produce massive amounts of blood, then have the fortitude to cut the man’s head off?

  He thought about the two men in Kentucky that he had decapitated and was determined that he’d never use the Gladius again. He knew he didn’t have it in him to again hack a man’s head off, hitting him three or four times while blood squirted from his neck with every swing of the blade.

  The broadsword. I’ll use the broadsword.

  Preach hoped he wouldn’t have to search too long for Matthew. He prayed the Lord would guide his steps and provide the sacrifice in a place and at a time of his own choosing. He wearied of the task. He felt that his spirit was lagging, and if the Lord didn’t give him strength, he would fail in his mission.

  “Not my will, but thine,” he prayed. “God give me strength.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Morris, Keller, and Benjamin exited the elevator onto the fourth floor of the Vanderbilt Burn Center where the lady at the information desk told them John Dupont was in room 427. Morris told Agent Grundy Cooper to stay in the car and that they would call him on his cell phone when they were ready for him to pick them up at the front door.

  Keller nudged Morris and pointed at a nurse’s station situated at a hallway intersection. A pleasant young nurse caught Keller’s eye and asked if she could help them.

  “We’re agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We called about speaking to a patient, Mr. John Dupont.”

  “Yes ma’am,” the nurse answered. Benjamin smiled at Keller now that he knew how much she hated being called ma’am. “Mr. Dupont is in room 427, just down the hall about half way on your right.”

  “We don’t need to wear any special protective clothing?” Benjamin asked.

  “Protective clothing?” Morris cut in. “What for?”

  “Some burn victims must be protected against possible infection,” Benjamin answered. “Burns are highly vulnerable to germs.”

  “You a doctor now too, are ya George? Doctors Kildare and Marcus Welby all rolled into one?”

  “No sir. I’m too young to know who they were, but I have seen reruns of ER and the Cosby show. Does that count?”

  “Smart ass.”

  Keller stepped between Morris and Benjamin before either of them, particularly Morris, could make a scene that would draw undue attention. “Just be quiet, Dunc.”

  Then she turned back to the nurse. “Do we need to wear gowns?”

  “No ma’am, Mr. Dupont is bandaged and there’s no danger of infection as long as you don’t touch his injuries.”

  “No chance’a that,” Morris muttered.

  “Mr. Dupont is sedated,” the nurse added. “I don’t know how much he’ll be able to talk to you.”

  “Sedated?” Morris asked. “Why the hell is he sedated if you people knew we were comin’ here to question him?”

  The head nurse, a firm-looking woman in her late forties heard Morris’ sarcastic question. She stepped to the desk and nudged the young nurse aside.

  “Our primary duty is patient care, not FBI interrogation,” she said firmly to Morris. “So if you want to speak to Mr. Dupont, you’ll be civil about it or you’re not going to see him. Is that clear?”

  Morris didn’t answer. Benjamin thought he saw just a spark of regret in Morris’ eyes at his outburst.

  “We understand, ma’am,” Benjamin answered for Morris.

  The three agents made their way down the hallway toward Room 427.

  “She’s some woman, huh?” Morris asked Benjamin when they were out of earshot of the nurse’s station. “I may have to come back and have another go at her.”

  “She’d rip your heart out and hand it to you,” Keller interjected.

  “Yeah, but it would be fun right up till then.”

  When the agents reached Room 427, Benjamin pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, followed by Morri
s and Keller.

  The man lying on the bed heard them enter and turned slowly toward them. His face was thin and gaunt and it was obvious that he’d been in considerable pain.

  “You the people from the FBI?”

  His voice was weak and just a little slurred from the medication he’d received that morning. Benjamin hoped the man would be able to speak to them. He was certain this man had seen the interstate serial killer.

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin answered. “I’m Agent Benjamin, and these are Special Agents Morris and Keller.”

  Dupont didn’t make any effort to shake the three agent’s hands.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand,” he said, making a feeble stab at humor.

  John Dupont appeared to be a small man, thirty to thirty-five years old, five foot seven, maybe one-hundred fifty pounds. His hair was chestnut brown, his eyes hazel grey, and his skin had that weathered quality like he spent a great deal of time outdoors. His legs were heavily wrapped in gauze from his feet to just below his knees. It was obvious from the shape of the bandages that he had suffered extensive tissue loss on both of his feet and calves.

  Dupont asked the agents to sit down then why they needed to see him. He wasn’t aware of anything he might have reported that would be of federal interest.

  “We’re here about your injuries,” Keller answered. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “My injuries?”

  “Yes sir. We have reason to believe your case may be related to a case we’re working on.”

  Dupont lay back on a short stack of pillows propped under his head and shoulders. He closed his eyes as if he were dozing off to sleep.

  “Mr. Dupont?”

  “I’m Okay.”

  He’d hoped the agents were there to tell him they’d caught the son of a bitch that had tortured him for two days.

  “I just don’t see what my injuries could have to do with a federal case unless it’s concerning me being kidnapped, but he didn’t take me across the state line.”

  Keller could tell the man was confused by their visit. How could she tell him that he may have been the victim of a serial killer—the only victim to survive his murder spree?

  “Mr. Dupont, we have reason to believe that whoever caused your injuries may be the same person responsible for a series of murders spread across this country.”

  “A serial killer?” Dupont asked. “Me? Why?”

  It didn’t take George Benjamin long to outline their case to John Dupont. He was astonished at their assumptions that he had been part of a random selection by this killer based on the simple facts that his name was John and that he was a writer.

  “We know this is an incredible situation, sir, but we’re sure we’re on the right track. Any information you can give us about the day this happened would be very helpful.”

  John Dupont thought back on that day, July 7, 2011 when his life changed. He had gotten up early that morning because he was working on a deadline for a story that he had to turn in to his editor by noon. He’d scheduled an interview with a lady from the Nashville Symphony Orchestra who was organizing the visit of a Chinese string quartet touring the United States.

  “Where was this interview?” Keller asked Dupont. “And at what time?”

  Dupont was still in considerable pain but he seemed determined to talk to the agents. “Eight a.m. on July 7th. That was a Thursday. My deadline was set for noon so we could make the weekend edition.”

  “Where?”

  “We met at the Clay Cup Coffee House on Maple Street in Murfreesboro,” Dupont answered.

  “I’m not familiar with it,” Keller said. Morris and Benjamin both shook their heads.

  “It’s privately owned,” Dupont said.

  “So it’s a coffee shop?” Morris asked. “Tables, chairs, quiet?”

  “Yes sir. I like to meet people I’m interviewing there. It helps them relax and it’s not too far from the paper. It’s not as formal as meeting at the newspaper office or at their business where we’re likely to be interrupted.”

  Keller asked Dupont if there was anything out of the ordinary about his visit to the coffee shop that day, or if anything had happened that seemed odd. Had there been anyone out of place–someone that didn’t seem like he belonged there?

  Dupont tried to remember the events of his interview but nothing stood out to him.

  “Can’t say there was anything special about that day. I finished my interview about 9 am. I stayed around awhile longer going over my notes. Then I left to go back to the paper to write my story. Nothing else. I just didn’t make it back to the office.”

  “You finished working on your notes, then you left the coffee shop. Is that it?” Keller asked.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Nothing else? You didn’t stop anywhere along the way?”

  “No,” Dupont answered. “Well, except to use the restroom.”

  “The restroom?” Benjamin asked. “At the coffee shop or on your way back to the paper?”

  “The coffee shop.”

  Keller and Morris exchanged glances. Benjamin caught their exchange and knew immediately what they were thinking.

  “Had you finished your coffee when you went to the restroom, Mr. Dupont, or did you finish it when you returned to your table?”

  Dupont thought about the chain of events. “No, it was still about half full,” he answered. “I guess it took me another ten minutes to finish it. Why?”

  “So what happened after you left the coffee shop?” Morris asked.

  “I’m not really sure,” Dupont replied. “I’d parked my car in the side parking lot like I always do. I remember getting into the car, then I got real dizzy and disoriented. Next thing I knew, I was blindfolded and strapped to a bed inside some kind of big vehicle.”

  “A bed?” Morris asked. “You mean a chair.”

  “No sir, a bed,” Dupont assured Morris. “It felt like an air bed but it was up off the floor like it was on a frame or something. There were straps across my chest, abdomen, and legs holding me down, and my wrists were secured to the floor.”

  He held up his left wrist where the agents could still see the bruising caused by him yanking on the straps.

  “Ligature marks just like on Thomas Waverly,” Benjamin said.

  “Just like on all of ‘em,” Morris agreed.

  “And you were in a large vehicle of some kind? A truck or van, maybe a bus?” Keller asked.

  “It felt more like a motorhome,” Dupont answered. “But I don’t remember seeing a motorhome in the parking lot.”

  Keller, Morris, and Benjamin knew they’d indeed stumbled onto a valuable piece of the puzzle. “Mr. Dupont,” Keller said. “I need you to think back on the coffee shop.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did anyone else know you were meeting the lady from the symphony?”

  “Just my editor.”

  “No one else?”

  “No ma’am.”

  Keller’s upper lip curled. Benjamin smiled.

  “So you got up and went to the restroom, then returned directly to your table. Is that correct?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And nothing out of the ordinary happened at that time?”

  “No ma’am, except for an old man that bumped into me just as I started to sit down.”

  “An old man?” Morris asked.

  “Yes sir,” Dupont answered. “Nice old guy tried to squeeze past me but couldn’t quite make it.”

  “And he bumped into you?”

  “Yes sir. Knocked my coffee cup over, but the lid was still on it so it didn’t spill.”

  “Did you pick up the coffee cup or did he?” Benjamin asked.

  Keller and Morris knew where Benjamin was going with this question.

  “He did,” Dupont answered. “Why?”

  “Did he actually pick up the cup, or just sit it back upright?”

  “He picked it up and made sure the lid was o
n tight. Why?”

  “That’s when he did it.”

  “Did what?” Dupont asked.

  “That’s when he slipped the drugs into your coffee,” Benjamin said. “He probably lifted the lid just enough to drop a capsule or powder into the coffee.”

  “Drugs? Somebody drugged me?”

  “Most likely,” Keller said. “It fits with information we have on other victims of this person.”

  Morris leaned in close to Dupont’s bedside. He could see that the man was in considerable discomfort, and the news that he’d been drugged and the victim of a serial killer upset the man even more. But here was a man who had seen the interstate serial killer. Whether he knew it or not, he’d seen the man that had killed at least five people, maybe more.

  “Mr. Dupont,” Morris said. “I need you to describe the people that were in the coffee shop that mornin’, particularly the man that bumped into you.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” Dupont said. “It was three months ago.”

  Morris wasn’t going to let Dupont get off that easy. “You’re a reporter. You’re trained to observe people and events around you.”

  “I just don’t know.”

  Dupont’s voice sounded weak and strained again. It was clear that this sudden news had unsettled him. The medication he’d received that morning was beginning to wear off and he could feel the painful throb returning to the remaining muscles in his legs.

  “I didn’t really look at his face. He was just an old man. Black hat. Just an old man.” Dupont laid his head back on his pillow.

  “Don’t give me that crap!” Morris snapped. “You saw this maniac. You know you did!”

  Keller stepped between Morris and Dupont. “Are you out of your mind, Dunc?”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “You can’t come down on this man like that. He’s not a criminal or suspect. He’s a victim, and you damn well better remember it.”

  John Dupont triggered a remote device that he held in his right hand. A small measure of morphine injected into an IV line running into his arm. He triggered the device again, releasing a second dose of the powerful pain killer.