by Jim Laughter
The digital display on his dashboard said it was Wednesday, October 19, 2011. Had it really been only a week since the Lord had provided Thomas Waverly as a sacrifice? Surely not! Was time standing still? Has the world come to an end and he just didn’t know it? Had the Lord moved up his timetable? If so, it would answer the question of why he felt such an urgency to continue with his mission.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Grundy Cooper parked the Crown Victoria in a visitor spot near the front entrance of the Vanderbilt Burn Center. Here it was Wednesday already. They’d tried to see John Dupont yesterday but their visit on Monday had triggered a traumatic shock when he’d over-injected himself with morphine. He’d spent Tuesday in an isolation room followed by physical therapy. Nurse Ratchet had complained to the hospital administrator who elevated it to the Nashville field supervisor. They’d agreed to allow the agents to visit Mr. Dupont again, but only if Morris wasn’t present.
Keller and Benjamin stepped out of the car but Cooper stayed seated. “You coming?” Keller asked the young agent.
“Me, ma’am?”
“You’re part of this investigation, aren’t you?”
Part of the investigation? Last week I was making coffee and filing meaningless reports. Now I’m part of a murder investigation?
“Yes ma’am. I guess so.”
“Then get out of the car,” Keller said. “And don’t call me ma’am.”
“Ma’am?”
Keller and Benjamin exchanged glances. “Call her LK,” Benjamin said. “Ma’am makes her feel old.”
“My mom’s the same way.”
Keller stopped and pointed her index finger at Cooper. “Well, I’m not your mother.”
“No ma’am. I mean LK,” Cooper stuttered.
Benjamin pushed Cooper toward the front door of the burn center. “You’re in over your head now, Cooper. Might as well learn to swim in deep water.”
The three agents rode the elevator to the fourth floor of the Vanderbilt Burn Center. When they stepped off the elevator, Nurse Ratchet was standing there to meet them. She looked past Keller and the two men, scouring the elevator for any sign of Morris.
“He’s not with us,” Keller offered.
“Is he coming?”
“No ma’am. He’s pursuing another lead we have on the case.”
“You understand, don’t you, that if you harass our patient, I’ll have you escorted from this clinic and have you banned from seeing Mr. Dupont?”
“Yes ma’am, we understand that,” Keller answered the stern nurse. “But it’s vital that we see Mr. Dupont and show him some photographs.”
“Photographs?”
Keller looked at the nurse’s nametag, hopeful that her name wasn’t Ratchet. The blue and gold nametag read Sharon Carr, Head Nurse.
“Yes, Nurse Carr, of the man we believe injured him.”
Nurse Carr pointed down the hallway toward room 427. “You know where he is,” she said, giving them reluctant permission to visit her patient.
When the agents passed the nurse’s station at the hallway intersection, Keller noticed that the nice young nurse they met on Monday was standing at the counter. She smiled but didn’t make any effort to address them. Keller assumed she’d been instructed by Nurse Carr to let her handle the agents. Her nametag said Marissa.
George Benjamin knocked on the door of room 427 and pushed it open. Instead of finding John Dupont lying in bed, he sat in a chair at a small desk, a laptop computer in front of him. His injured legs were still bandaged and were elevated by use of a sterile gauze sling.
Dupont turned when the agents entered his room. He didn’t appear to be drugged or in pain, so Benjamin hoped they’d be able to interview the man without causing him any distress.
“Where’s the other one?” Dupont asked when Morris failed to enter the room. “The old man with the big mouth?”
“He’s working at the Nashville field office today,” Benjamin answered. “He asked us to apologize for his behavior the other day. He didn’t mean to cause you any harm.”
Dupont motioned for the agents to sit down in two chairs brought in by the nursing staff. Cooper stood to one side, not really sure why he was even there.
“You said you needed to see me again,” Dupont started. “What about?”
Dupont’s voice was hard and distrusting after the way he’d been assaulted on Monday. He wasn’t sure he wanted to speak to the agents, but even as mad as he was at them, he wanted to catch the man who tortured him even more.
“Yes sir,” Keller answered. “We have a few photographs we’d like for you to look at, and we need to talk to you about the day you were abducted.”
“You mean tortured, don’t you?” Dupont asked. “You mean the day that maniac drugged me, tied me up, and damn near killed me?”
“Yes sir, that’s exactly what we mean. And with your help, I believe we can find this man before he can hurt anyone else. Are you willing and able to help us?”
Dupont nodded. Damn right I’m willing and able. Willing and able to kill the son-of-a-bitch if I ever get my hands on him.
Keller removed several photographs from a satchel she’d borrowed from Morris. She spread the pictures on the desk in front of John Dupont. She hoped seeing the pictures would produce a response from the injured man. They didn’t. He just stared at them, not giving any hint that he recognized the man in the pictures.
“Mr. Dupont, do you recognize this man? Have you ever seen him before?”
The first picture showed an old man exiting the Clay Cup Coffee House. His face was obscured by a hat pulled low over his forehead. Four other pictures showed him from different angles while he ambled up the sidewalk toward the parking lot around the side of the building.
None of the photographs showed a clear image of the man’s face, but they all clearly exposed his right arm. The picture suggested that he’d been in an accident of some kind if not born with a birth defect. His posture and gait suggested that he stooped a little at the shoulders.
Dupont examined the pictures for another minute. Keller and Benjamin began to think they’d printed photographs of the wrong man. Dupont’s facial expression never changed. His eyes showed no sign that he recognized the man.
“That’s him,” Dupont said without expressing any emotion.
“Sir?” Benjamin asked. “Are you saying that’s the man who injured you?”
“That’s the man I told you about who bumped into me at the coffee house that day.”
“You’re sure about that?” Keller asked.
“Yes, I’m sure. But I don’t see what this has to do with anything. He was just a nice old man who helped me with my coffee.”
“He’s not the man that kidnapped you?” Keller asked. “He’s not the man that drugged and tortured you?”
“How the hell would I know that? I was blindfolded and tied down. All I could do was hear his voice. I never saw his face.”
“You heard him?” Benjamin asked. “Did he speak directly to you or could you hear him in the background speaking to someone else?”
“Both. He asked me the craziest questions.”
“Questions? What kind of questions?”
John Dupont pushed away from the desk, averting his eyes from the pictures. It was clear to Keller and Benjamin that Dupont was recalling the events of July 7, 2011, arranging the details in his head before speaking them out loud.
“I remember waking up inside that vehicle.”
“What kind of vehicle?” Benjamin asked. “A truck or van?”
“It was big and quiet, not like a truck or panel van. More like a motorhome or RV of some kind. I was blind-folded so I couldn’t see. I was held down by straps across my body, and my hands were secured by restraints connected to the floor of the vehicle.”
Keller and Benjamin nodded at each other, both of them remembering the ligature marks on Thomas Waverly’s wrists.
“Go on, Mr. Dupont,” Keller said. “Then what happened?�
��
“Well, after a while we turned off of the main highway and onto a rough road; gravel I think, and we drove on it for maybe a mile or two.”
“And this man is speaking to you during this time?” Benjamin asked.
“No, but I could hear him speaking to someone. I just don’t know who, and it wasn’t clear what he was saying. It sounded like some kind of foreign language.”
“That’s odd,” Keller said. Benjamin didn’t answer. He already suspected what Dupont was going to say but didn’t want to speculate. John Dupont went on to tell the agents that the vehicle drove for a short while on the rough road before coming to a stop.
“The police report said the sheriff’s department found evidence of your abduction at a place called the J. Percy Priest Reservoir,” Benjamin said.
“Hermitage Landing, to be exact,” Dupont answered. “It’s a popular campground not too far out of town. It’s quiet, out of the way. Good beach. Very private.”
“And I’ll bet the campsites are secluded away from the main roads, aren’t they?” Keller asked.
Dupont nodded yes. He’d been there many times, as a boy then a man, on weekend camping trips with his family. It was a place he’d always loved. How could a place he loved so much be used as a place of torture and torment?
The fact that Dupont had been held captive and tortured at a place called J. Percy Priest Reservoir confirmed Keller and Benjamin’s suspicion that the man who abducted him was the same man responsible for the interstate serial killings. The religious connotations were undeniable.
Keller turned and faced Cooper who was still standing near the window looking out over the front entrance of the burn center. He could see the Crown Victoria and wished he were sitting in it.
“Do you know how to get to that reservoir?”
“Yes ma’am,” Cooper answered, forgetting Keller’s fetish. “I’ve been out there a time or two.”
Benjamin laid his hand on Dupont’s arm, trying to comfort the tormented man.
“Mr. Dupont, you said the vehicle traveled on the gravel road for a mile or two. Did you hear anything when the vehicle stopped?”
“Hear anything? Like what?”
“Were there any odd noises or sounds? Did the brakes squeal?”
“Air brakes,” Dupont said. “There was that whoosh sound that airbrakes make. Like on a semi-truck when it stops.”
“Or a motorhome,” Benjamin said. “A diesel pusher to be exact.”
“Diesel pusher?” Keller asked.
“It’s a style of motorhome. It uses the same braking system as semi-trucks. It’s common on higher end motorhomes and recreational vehicles. Luxury coaches mostly.”
Keller made note of Benjamin’s speculation. They would need to check the reservoir’s registration files for the week of July 7th. However, Keller doubted if the killer would have registered under his own name if he registered at all. If the killer was using a motorhome, it would answer the question of how he was able to transport his victims long distances without arousing suspicion.
“Then what happened?” Keller prompted Dupont.
“Then the man covered my mouth and nose with a cloth and I passed out. When I woke up, I was outside trussed up like a hog for slaughter. I could feel the heat from a fire near my bare feet, and I didn’t have any pants on. My hands were tied over my head.”
“You were suspended in the air?” Benjamin asked.
“No, I was sitting in a chair, but the chair was leaning back like people do when they’re sitting on the front porch.”
“Go ahead, sir,” Keller said.
“The maniac spoke to me and said the craziest things.”
“Like what?”
“He thanked me for agreeing to help him fulfill his mission.”
Dupont’s eyes glazed over and his voice lowered to just above a whisper.
“He said heaven would bless me for it, and that God had led him to me. He said God needed a sacrifice and that one day I would walk on streets of gold with the other saints and martyrs.”
Keller pulled her chair closer to Dupont. She could tell the man was tormented by the memory of his ordeal. “Mr. Dupont?”
“The man was kind and gentle,” Dupont said. “He apologized for hurting me, even before he dipped my feet into the hot oil the first time. And even while my feet were in the oil, I felt him place his hands on my head and ask God not to let my injuries be too bad and to heal me.”
John Dupont began to cry, tears coursing down his face.
“He was genuinely repentant for hurting me.”
Keller made a note in her notebook. How could one man torture another then pray to God for mercy?
“Mr. Dupont?” Benjamin said, “you said this man spoke directly to you and asked you questions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What kind of questions?”
Dupont wiped the tears from off his face.
“It didn’t make any sense,” he said. “He didn’t ask me anything until after he’d dipped my feet into the oil five or six times. Then he asked me if God had shown me any kind of revelations.”
Benjamin and Keller both nodded but didn’t say anything. However, both were thinking the same thought–John the Revelator.
“He asked me if I’d seen any visions or heard from God about anything,” Dupont continued. “And one more thing. He kept calling me beloved.”
“Beloved?” Keller asked. She looked at Benjamin for clarification.
“John the Revelator—John the Beloved.”
Dupont turned his head and faced Keller. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her as if asking a silent question.
Why was I selected as a target by this maniac? Have I offended this man in a way I can’t fathom? Is God mad at me? Have I sinned and this is my punishment?
“Mr. Dupont? You said you could hear the man speaking to someone else. Did he have an accomplice?”
“I could hear him praying,” Dupont said, still staring at Keller.
“Praying?”
“Yes, praying. As in speaking to God.”
“But you couldn’t understand him, could you?” Benjamin asked.
Keller turned toward Benjamin. “How would you know that?”
“Because he was speaking in tongues. This man is a preacher or minister of some kind, maybe even a priest or rabbi, and he’s on a mission from God.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
George Benjamin woke with a start. He’d fallen asleep on the couch in Keller’s room while taking a break from studying the murder files and reviewing the photographs provided to them by the bank in Murfreesboro. Keller saw Benjamin jerk awake as if startled by something.
“You okay, George?”
“I can’t believe how stupid I am.”
Benjamin wiped a crusty piece of sleep away from the corner of his eye.
“George?”
“It’s right there in front of me and I didn’t see it.”
“What, George? Didn’t see what?”
Benjamin pushed up from the couch and sat down at the table across from Keller who was studying the photographs from the bank, and reviewing her notes from their interview with John Dupont. Benjamin reached across the table and flipped Keller’s notebook to the last page.
“Do you remember me telling you our killer is a preacher or minister of some kind, and that he’s on a mission from God?”
“So?”
“So it just occurred to me what kind of minister he is.”
“You mean you know what religion he is?” Keller asked. “Baptist? Methodist? What?”
“Maybe. But more specifically, I believe he’s an evangelist.”
“Evangelist?” Being Catholic, Keller was not familiar with the term.
“An evangelist is a preacher or minister who travels from church to church preaching revivals, camp meetings, stuff like that.”
“I’m not familiar with the concept,” Keller admitted. “Is that kind’a like a missionary o
r something?”
Benjamin nodded.
“Similar. Except they’re usually domestic, and often territorial, and they usually stick to their own religious affiliations.”
At that moment the door opened and Morris entered the room. He’d spent the morning with Dorothy McDill, the lady from the Nashville Symphony that John Dupont had interviewed on July 7th. He dropped his satchel on the couch where Benjamin had been asleep.
“Any luck?” Keller asked her partner.
“Hell no,” Morris answered. “That woman is dumb as a box of rocks. All she wanted to talk about was the Nashville orchestra, as if I give a damn about that crap.”
“Nothing else? She didn’t remember seeing the old man in the coffee house?”
“You should’a seen this cow,” Morris laughed. “Must’a dressed out at three-hundred pounds if she weighs an ounce. And her glasses are so thick she couldn’t a seen that old man if he was sittin’ on her lap.”
Morris opened the small fridge set into the counter in the room’s kitchenette and removed a cold beer. He turned toward Keller.
“You bought lite beer?”
She didn’t answer.
“You mean to tell me that in a town like Nashville that’s chock full of hillbillies, rednecks, and moonshiners, you couldn’t find a six-pack of regular beer?”
“I like lite beer,” Keller answered. “And George…”
“Don’t even start on me about the Apostle George,” Morris interrupted her.
He cast a sideways glance at Benjamin.
“Reverend there don’t even drink beer, remember?”
He looked around the room. “Where’s that red-headed rookie?”
“The Nashville field office called,” Benjamin said. “He’ll be back in a little while.”
“Call him on his cell phone and tell him to stop by a liquor store, not a grocery store, on his way back and pick up some real beer.”
Benjamin removed his cell phone from off his belt clip.
“Any particular brand?”
“Red Stripe or Fosters,” Morris answered. “This lite crap is for faggots, old women, and mama’s boys. And tell him to buy it already cold.”
