by Chris Leibig
THE PHONE BUZZED. “THIS is Young.”
“Sam, I’ve been calling you all morning.” Dr. Thomas’s nasally voice was friendly, but, what? Concerned?
“Sorry. Working.”
“Your journal. You wanted my opinion. About whether this guy could be the Rosslyn Ripper.”
“Well?”
“Of course there’s no way to be sure of anything when it comes to profiling, but off the record, I’m almost certain that your mystery author is not the Rosslyn Ripper.”
“Anything else?”
“This is a bit superficial, but I’ll let you have it.” Sam could hear Thomas leafing through some notes. “First, this all presupposes that the writer is attempting a serious, factual narrative, and isn’t just having you on with a story. But I’d say the writer is elderly, has probably been quietly suffering from mental illness for many years, is likely nonviolent, and has been living the same false narrative for a very long time. The grandiosity, while perhaps real, has not been acted upon in any real way. This type of person has probably held one simple job for decades, probably reliable, like a ticket taker at Amtrak or a custodian, stays quiet, and pays laser-like attention to everything, eventually twisting and turning all the details into his narrative. These are the people our writer encounters every day—the train passengers, the busy bees and their meaningless lives. The writer is superior to them all, but silently so. Graciously so, even. Probably a solo binge drinker or maybe a pot smoker, and a voracious reader and writer.”
“But he talks about killing. His stepfather. The sailor.”
“Hyperbole, I’d say. Probably hasn’t killed anybody. My guess is someday, in some shabby apartment complex, the police will find a body, dead of natural causes, surrounded by decades of dusty notebooks. It’s sad, really. Something medication could cure.”
Sam rubbed his head. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Sam, are you ever going to find this person?”
•••
Sam’s lungs burned as he walked from his car to the jail through the one-hundred-degree heat. He was exhausted. He knew he was pretty well running over his forty-eight hour deal with Juliana. Nevertheless, he was on his way to do what he always did when he had no idea what else to do—his job. His phone buzzed.
“Mr. Young?”
“Yes.”
“This is Elizabeth Vertolli from Bennet Mental Health. We spoke the other day, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, Jerome Johnson.”
“Yes, well, because you brought him in, it’s our policy to notify you that he walked off the property this morning.”
“Walked off? They can do that?”
“Yes, sir, this is not a secure facility. It was a voluntary admission, technically. No court order or anything.”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it, have a good day, sir.”
Sam hung up. There was no end to it. Now he had to call the chief.
•••
“Hey, buddy!” Nguyen scurried across the jail parking lot. “Man, it’s hard to get you on the phone. I just followed you here. You want my report or what?”
Sam lit a cigarette and watched Nguyen thoughtfully. “Nice haircut.” He had shaved his signature spiked, glistening hair. He also wore slacks and a collared shirt.
“Thanks, buddy. Like my new look?”
“Well, for one thing, you don’t look like a child molester.”
“Tough world.” Nguyen shrugged. “Anyway, I got the goods on your bodies. You want it?”
“The basics.”
“Mary Beth Schneider. A straitlaced babe. Chemistry major. Clean as a whistle. A real tragedy. Her Google account and Facebook pages are devoted to nerdy science stuff. No boyfriend. No nothing. She went to work, went home, watched TV, and went to movies and shit. I didn’t know there were people like this still out there.”
“Next.”
“Carole Kingsley. A chick from the hood. Smoked a lot of weed. Got fired from Starbucks last fall. Her mother basically cared for her two year old. Her father, well, I think you know some of this, racked up a petty rap sheet after getting back from a tour of duty in Iraq. He’s on disability and smoked crack regularly until you, I believe, checked him into the Bennet County psych ward. You want more on this?”
“Maybe later.” Sam made a mental note to call O’Malley about Johnson leaving the psych ward.
“Joni West was depressed. Spent most of her online time on mental health websites and yoga-guru kinds of shit. I think she tried to kill herself last year, but that’s a little murky. She disappeared from the web for nine days and got a bunch of cryptic get-well-soon shit from friends on her social sites. Bunch of nude pics of her, too. She chatted with random men on hook-up sites and met one or two of ’em for a quick bang. Wanna see the pics?”
“No. Let’s get to it.”
“Ahh, yes. Zebulon Lucas. This dude was effed up. He put up hundreds—no, thousands of psychotic posts on crazy websites. Some of them are terrorist rants, like about bringing down the US government, stuff like that. One of his screen handles was—get this—the Angel of Death. On a recent diatribe he blogged that he was the spawn of Satan. So anyway, Zebulon was committed to a mental hospital for ninety days about three years ago. Since then he’s been living in a group house in southwest DC. A real dump. His roommates were basically a bunch of potheads. I got shit on them, too. You want it?”
“No. Anything else?”
“He’s a sexual freak, if that matters. I got lots of his Internet chats. Photos too. Not pretty. He’s half a fag, for real.” Nguyen held a stack of computer-printed photographs towards Sam.
“Watch your syntax, Skipper. Bitch this, fag that. At least be selective.” He took the photos and tucked them neatly into his briefcase.
“What’s it matter? I get good stuff, right?”
“It matters if you’re gonna work as an investigator for me.”
Nguyen shuffled his feet and looked down. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Let me ask you something, Skipper. Why do you think the Ripper would kill three attractive women and then a guy like Zebulon?”
Nguyen masked a smile, obviously pleased that Sam had asked his opinion.
“I gotta say, I know people are gonna talk copycat, but that makes no sense. A copycat would kill a woman.”
“What else?”
“It can’t be a coincidence, not with the location and manner of death. The odds against that would be pretty high, anyway. It’s related somehow.”
After a quick thought, Sam added, “Great work.”
“Oh, and your nun. Sorry about this, but I couldn’t come up with anything much. A Camille Paradisi did attend American University in the seventies. But I can’t even access what she studied or whether she got a degree. Couldn’t find anything on her anywhere else, and I checked birth records in all fifty states. But, you know, you can’t trust that; every state is different. And as far as the Catholic Church, it’s a weird organization. Not like a company you can hack into or anything. Shit, a lot of their records are on paper. Searching nuns doesn’t get you far.”
“Anything else?”
Nguyen scrolled through his phone.
“Big city convents do have some records that can be accessed. I checked the ten largest American cities and every big city on the East Coast. I got one name, not Camille, and not your girl.”
Sam waited.
“Paradisi, took vows in Miami, Florida. No first name listed. I even called down there and got a guy to dig around to see if there was any more info. Don’t worry though. He thinks I’m an historian from Portland.”
“So how do you know she’s not my girl?”
“Because she took final vows in 1964. Fifty-one years ago.”
•••
The deputy buzzed the door to the 4CF unit, one of the large general population units where the inmates were free to mill about, watch television, lift weights, and talk on the phone. Sam immediately saw Hogman sitting at a sm
all, round table by himself, newspaper opened wide in front of him. Sam joined him.
Hogman hesitated before putting down the newspaper, as if he truly felt interrupted.
“So, what did you find out?”
“Basically, they say you threw a rock through a window at city hall. Officer Grundy’s report says an eyewitness described you. A cop found you two blocks away sitting on a bench, and then the witness picked you out of a photo spread. That’s pretty much it. That and the fact that you have, well, kind of a distinctive look.”
“What was the description?” Hogman asked, a gruff, indignant edge in his voice.
Sam glanced down at the report.
“A Mrs. Jennifer Arnold told the cops, ‘Heck, yes, I’d remember him. He was an albino.’”
Hogman nodded his head softly, considering the new information.
“Do they have the rock?”
Sam opened his thin file.
“Strangely enough, they do. It’s in police property. I’ve only seen a picture of it so far. It’s just a gray rock, about the right size for throwing, you know. Not too big, not too small.” He showed a picture of the rock to Hogman. The rock was neatly labeled with an evidence sticker.
“That Officer Grundy is a veritable Sherlock Holmes,” Hogman said.
“Indeed.”
“Well, their case is horseshit. I was sitting on the bench minding my own business, and they came up and arrested me. Am I the only albino you’ve ever seen around here?”
“Yes.”
“My point exactly. Who else was in the photo spread? Of course she picked me. All you have to do is get the rock tested.”
“Tested how?”
“For my DNA. It won’t be on it. The DNA of some other albino will be on it. Case closed.”
“They don’t do DNA testing in small cases like this. Besides, it’s not clear your DNA would even be on the rock.”
“So what? It’s worth a try, isn’t it? If it pans out, the jury’ll take a crap all over their case and wipe their asses with that rock to boot.”
“Funny.” But Hogman did not appear to be joking.
While boy-like in stature, he was also older than Sam had originally believed. His wrinkly fingers bespoke a life of working with his hands. His eyes and voice were serious, but somehow a little off. Like a comic playing a straight role.
“I’ll think about it, but your plan has some holes in it.”
“It ain’t the only thing,” Hogman said.
“Fair enough. But maybe we should think of something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe you should plead guilty, do a little time, and get out of here. It’s not exactly the crime of the century. Maybe you were drunk. Maybe you could take some alcohol awareness classes or something.”
“Don’t worry about any of that shit, Young. I’m not pleading guilty. Let’s just say I have my reasons. And my reasons aren’t about doing time. I just don’t need the, shall we say, additional scrutiny that could come with such an arrangement.”
Some people managed to get booked into the jail under phony names. But if convicted, their prints would go to the national records exchange, thereby exposing the ruse. It happened most often with illegal immigrants who didn’t want to be deported, but it happened to another type of person as well—people who lived off the grid, people without credit or bank accounts. Sam searched Hogman’s eyes. People who didn’t want to be found.
“I hear you,” Sam said. “So we go to trial.”
“Maybe. But I got one other idea.”
“The suspense is killing me.”
“I know who the Rosslyn Ripper is.”
Sam frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Hogman asked.
“That’s the second time this week I’ve heard that one. I don’t care what he’s been saying, but Morris Talberton is not the Rosslyn Ripper.”
“I never said he was.”
Sam sighed. “Okay, how do you know who the Rosslyn Ripper is?”
“Because he told me. I spoke to him at Sargent’s restaurant the day before my arrest. A few days before that final victim’s body was found.”
Sargent’s, an old, cash-only bar right outside the city projects; Sam had had a dozen cases, fights and thefts, originate from Sargent’s.
“And?”
“He was drunk off his ass. He told me, not in so many words, that he was responsible for the murders and that, in so many words, he was ‘born to kill.’ That it’s in his genes. I know what the guy looks like, and I can prove that conversation happened.”
“How?”
“Because he was also talking to a lady that night. A pretty young one—I’d know her if I saw her, kind of Spanish or somethin’, long hair. Way out of place for Sargent’s. They were arguing, actually. Like she was pleading with him about something. You should have seen the anger in his eyes. I mean this guy was really dangerous. While he was ordering another drink, I warned her. I told her he was a freak who’d just told me he murdered women. After that, I left. But if you find that woman, she’ll tell you. She’ll corroborate my story that I was there, that I warned her. Which proves the guy really said it to me.”
Sam contemplated Hogman’s words, trying to spin past some of the defenses in Hogman’s suspicious mind. But Hogman’s mind felt like a maze, like a series of twists and turns and combination locks. Sam was not sure if he had ever tried to read someone with just such a mental pattern.
“So let me get this straight. You’re afraid to plead guilty to a petty crime because of the additional scrutiny, but you want to be a witness in the biggest case in America?”
“Let me worry about that. Besides, there ain’t gonna be no trial.”
“Oh really? How’s that? It’s death-penalty-eligible murder. No one pleads guilty to it.” Sam stood up, prepared to leave.
“Because there won’t.”
Sam paused. “You said final. You said three nights before the final body was found. Why’d you say final? How would you know it’s the final body?”
Hogman smirked. “If you’re half the sleuth as our esteemed Officer Grundy is, you’ll figure that out before the next time you wipe your ass, Young. All you have to do is open your eyes. The Ripper murders are over. Now are you gonna bring ’em my fuckin’ offer, or not?’
“Let me think about it.”
“You do that.”
•••
Sam sat in his car in front of the office. He felt wired and exhausted, excited and overwhelmed. He was used to the feeling and solved it, quite often, with a drink. He laid his head back on the seat and breathed deeply through his nose, thinking about what to do next. He hit Nguyen’s number on his phone.
“Sam?”
“Hey, I got a project for you. And you gotta hurry.”
“On it boss.”
“Ever heard of Sargent’s restaurant?”
“Unfortunately, I know it well.”
•••
Sam leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes. As he fell into half sleep, he felt like he was softly falling—down and down—to a place from which it would be very, very hard to emerge.
Sam stood alone next to his friend Andrew’s running pick-up truck. He was in front of Holy Angels—not the fancy new church, but the old one, the one from the mid-90s, before the renovation. Andrew sat behind the wheel, patiently awaiting whatever it was that Sam felt he had to do, which, at the moment, was to wait for the priest to reach him. The priest walked slowly, lips pursed in solemn grimness. There had not been a formal funeral. Sam had decided on a simple memorial service and had been surprised to see that Andrada had returned from wherever he had gone to officiate the small ceremony. All of the other attendees had driven away at least ten minutes before, but Andrada was in no rush. He maintained the same facial expression until he reached Sam, and then he smiled. He placed his hands on Sam’s shoulder. “She was one of a kind,” he said. Sam did not reply. He looked into the man’s eyes. One brown. On
e green.
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Sam, about the faith, about some of your mother’s beliefs. Some of it, she was saving for you until you grew up. Which you’ve now done.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
“Let’s talk soon. We’d really like to keep in touch.”
“We?”
“The church. Your mother’s friends.”
“I’m heading to college in a few weeks. I’ll call you.”
“Good.”
Andrada gripped his hand tightly with both of his before turning to walk away.
•••
Sam suddenly snapped awake. He was sweating in the hot car as the August sun beamed through the windshield. He thought about the day he learned his mother had died, along with every other passenger and the crew of American Airlines flight 1420 to Frankfurt. She had been on her way to Indonesia. He remembered watching the search and rescue efforts on CNN. Many of the bodies, including Marcela Young’s, were never recovered. When the commentators stated the obvious, that after several hours it was clear no one had survived the crash into the Atlantic, Sam still kept watching.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Sam sprang out of his daze, taking a moment to focus on Amelia’s knuckles rapping on his window. Her muffled voice seemed desperate.
“Sam, wake up!”
Sam opened the car door and turned in his seat to face her. A rush of cool air caught him by surprise, and he inhaled deeply.
“Are you fucking crazy? Passed out in a closed car? In this heat? You could die! Are you drunk, too?”
“I’m not drunk.” And he wasn’t. Just exhausted. He peered at her again. “Why are you crying? If you’re that pissed off, why—”
“I’m not angry.” Amelia grinned through her tears and wiped some strands of wig hair out of her face. “I’m happy.”
Sam got out of the car. His head pounded.
“I’m cured, Sam. I went to the doctor yesterday. It’s completely gone. My bloodwork shows a complete, totally complete, remission. I’ve been trying to find you to tell you.” Amelia pulled Sam’s arm, forcing him to either resist or step closer. She hugged him tightly.
“But we need to talk.” Back to all-business Amelia. “If you don’t straighten your shit out I’m going to do one of those intervention things.”
