GHOST_4_Kindle_V2 (15 page)

“Officer Spector, are you all right?” Doc Shepherd asked. “You…you’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” I said, but my voice was so tight and clipped I was sure Doc would know otherwise.

He stared at me and twirled his mustache. Finally, he said, “I’m fine too.”

I took his meaning instantly. More points for Doc Shepherd in my book.
 

“We swear to do no harm,” Doc Shepherd said, muttering as if I wasn’t even in the room. “Hippocratic Oath, it’s what doctors are supposed to stand for. Some of us still do.” He fell silent, and his eyes took on a level, faraway stare.

I shook my head at the madness of it all. There was a black-soul out there somewhere killing young women with a 19th century abortion knife. A theory about the killer’s motive began to emerge, but I was reluctant to go there.
 

“Can you tell me anything else about the blade?”

He nodded, seemingly relieved to exit a room full of dark thoughts. “The knife is old,” he said. “And a far cry from modern quality. But this was no crude instrument used in back alleys on prostitutes who found themselves pregnant. The Cain’s Dagger was used by surgeons on anyone who could pay. And this was high-end technology, at one time, of course.”
 

“Surgeons,” I repeated.

“Surgeons.”

Again, the motive whispered at my door. I had to go there this time. “Some sort of religious statement?” I asked Doc Shepherd. “Some so-called Christian…killing with an old abortion knife to show that abortion is murder?”

Doc Shepherd leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. “Not sure it’s as simple as that.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The age of the instrument,” Doc Shepherd said. “Why not use a modern abortion device? There are plenty to choose from, unfortunately.”

The freight train of motive I’d been growing more certain of…just derailed. Actually, it slammed into a brick wall.

“I suppose it’s not out of the question for Pro-Lifers to use violence to make their point,” Doc Shepherd continued. “There are hypocrites everywhere, of course. Do you happen to know if any of the victims were abortion docs, surge-techs, or any kind of clinic employees?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” I said. “But we can’t rule it out.”

“I see,” Doc replied. He made a thoughtful humming sound and twirled the end of his mustache. “Officer Spector, are you at liberty to share the number of victims so far?”

I nodded. “Thirteen to date.”

“To date?” Doc Shepherd echoed.
 

“It’s complicated.”

“It might be,” Doc Shepherd said. “Increasing the number of variables can do that. But, once a connection asserts itself, the variables have a way of falling into tidy columns.”

“Doctor Shepherd,” I said, edging my voice. “Do you have a theory about these killings?”

“Like I told you before,” he said, “I don’t care to speak in theories. I like to be sure. But I like to ask questions.”

I almost laughed. “I’d be very interested in hearing your questions.”

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll begin with, why do the extremists use violence?”

“To shock people…to frighten.”

“Or?” Doc Shepherd waited patiently.

“Or…to get attention.”

“Precisely,” he said. “So who gets attention from these killings? Thirteen grisly killings, and yet, I’ve not heard anything in the news.”

Actually, I thought he probably had heard of these murders before. The Smiling Jack case had created a media frenzy several years back. If I connected those dots for Doctor Shepherd, there was a good chance he’d know the FBI had declared the case a hoax. There was a good chance Doctor Shepherd would accept the FBI’s assessment. And, there was a very good chance, Doctor Shepherd would wonder why a law enforcement officer would be looking into a closed case. It might even be enough to get Doctor Shepherd to question my identity.
 

“Serial murders make for good TV ratings, unfortunately,” Doctor Shepherd went on. “But given the absence of such coverage, I am led to wonder: are these murders getting the attention the killer thinks they deserve?”

“I doubt it,” I blurted out.

“Why not?”

“That,” I said, “I am not at liberty to share.”

“Well, then, I suppose the question becomes: who does the killer expect to provide the attention?”

“Explain that.”

“Right,” he replied. “So let’s assume the killer is a deranged Pro-Lifer. If he kills abortion docs and clinic employees, who’s supposed to notice?”

“The other abortion docs,” I replied. “The other clinic workers. Scare them. Make them think twice about coming to work.”

“Certainly,” he replied. “And?”

“And…uh…I suppose the public conscience. Open eyes to the horror going on behind the scenes.”

“Yes,” Doc Shepherd said. “And if, the victims aren’t abortion clinic employees or surgeons who perform abortions?”

“Then, the intended audiences shifts.”

“Seems likely,” Doc Shepherd said. “Do the victims have anything in common?”

“Young women, early twenties…that’s all we’ve got so far.”

Doc Shepherd twirled his mustache.
 

“What?”

“All young women,” he said. “That…that’s problematic.”

“How so?”

“If you murder young women with an abortion knife…it certainly seems like you’re trying to scare off other women…women who might be considering abortions. Still…the age of the knife doesn’t fit with that.”

“At the very least,” I said, thinking aloud. “the killer has to be trying to send
some
kind of message…something related to abortion.”

“Oh, he’s sending a message all right,” Doc said. “He wouldn’t be using Cain’s Dagger if he wasn’t.”

“So what’s the message?” I asked absently.

Doc Shepherd winked. “I suppose, Officer Spector, that’s what you need to figure out. But, I would begin with the intended audience. Discover the nature of who’s supposed to pay attention and you are very close to motive. And once you establish the motive, I suspect, you will find your man.”
 

“Thank you, Doc,” I said. “I don’t know that I could have gotten this information anywhere else.”

He fluttered a hand like he was brushing off the comment. “Officer, as you no doubt recognize, this blade is no common instrument in this day and age. It would be something of a collector’s item today. A very disturbed collector, that is. You might consider that thread as well.”

I stood. We shook hands. “I appreciate the help. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“If I can be of any further assistance, don’t hesitate, young man.”

“I won’t,” I said. And I had the strange fleeting thought that, even should this case become blindingly disturbing, I might have to give serious thought to keeping my memory of Doctor Shepherd.

I turned to leave, but Doc drew me to a halt when he asked, “You a Dickens fan?”

“Dickens?”

“As in Charles Dickens, the writer.”

I shrugged. “He had a keen wit,” I said. “Had a way of capturing the human condition that was better than most. I guess, you could say I’m a fan.”

“My favorite author,” Doc said, twirling his mustache reflectively. “Y’know, I think Dickens had it right when the Ghost of Christmas Present told Scrooge to beware of man’s offspring, Ignorance and Want, but especially Ignorance.”

I nodded, deep in thought. And it dawned on me what Doc meant. I quoted Dickens, “For on his brow I see that written which is Doom…”
 

“Be careful out there, son,” Doc said. “There’s no end to the wickedness of mankind.”

“There will be,” I replied as I left. “For some sooner than others.”
 

* * *
   
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Walking out of the hospital into the wall of heat some people in Florida called air, I was thinking that my day couldn’t possibly get any more interesting. Then, I almost literally ran into Special Agent Rezvani.
 

“You checked out of Motel 6,” she said.
 

“You noticed.”

“I
am
with the FBI,” she said. “They pay me to notice things. Not much, but they do pay me.”

“How’d you know to come to the hospital?”

“You’d written it on a stationary pad…left an imprint.”

“Clever,” I said. “From the other day, when you were in my room.”
 

She nodded. “Speaking of your room,” she said. “I went by there about a half hour ago, and it looked like a train wreck. Mr. Granderson was having a major hissy fit about it. Care to tell me what that was all about?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Cicadas in the palms chirped more loudly. I raised my voice. “Depends on what you wanted to talk about…and whether or not you plan on trusting me.”

“Mr. Spector,” she said. “I want to trust you, but professionally, it would be ludicrous to do so. Do I have to explain why?”

“No, I guess not. But you did come looking for me. Should we sit down and talk somewhere?”

“Out of the heat,” she said. “This is oppressive. Come on. I’ll drive.”

* * *
   
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We settled on a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place a few miles from the hospital. The waitress didn’t speak much English except for what was on the menu. She brought us a basket of chips and three different salsas. One of them green, one dark red, and the other a viscous, angry orange. She pointed to it and said, “Hot.”

I wasn’t too worried. I loaded a chip with a glob of the so called hot stuff and wolfed it down. I blinked a few times. Beads of sweat popped up on my forehead. My throat burned. My stomach churned. And, I think my heartbeat became a bit irregular.

“This…” I said, swiping up the glass of ice water and gulping it down, “this really is hot.”

Agent Rezvani booted her laptop, plugged a power cord into an outlet below the table, and hooked up a pair of ear buds. When the desktop appeared, she opened a video player and said, “You aren’t going to want to eat after this.”

“More photos?” I asked, swabbing my forehead with napkins.

“No.” She typed in a username and a password. “A video. The camera you found had a two minute video clip on its memory card. Did you know?”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “No, I didn’t.” I slid the chip basket to the windowsill. “Does it show something new?”

“You tell me.”

Agent Rezvani gave me the ear buds and pressed play. There was no ambient sound. No voices. No scrape of a chair. But there was a dreadfully out of place cello piece. It was a deep, thrumming melody that—coupled with the expected content—turned my stomach almost immediately. The young woman with lush red hair sat in a chair like before. She wore the same ghoulish expression, but it was far worse seeing it in motion: the subtle sway of her head, the languid leer in her eyes, the lips moving, curling into that sickly smile. The killer stood behind her as before, face visible only from the bottom of his sharp nose down. The blade came up, touched her throat. A bead of blood appeared. The cello raced on. She smiled through the whole cut.

After her head fell forward, the screen flickered. There was the long dark hall and the strange glow up ahead. The unsteady camera bounced along, showing the killer from behind as he walked. The brightness of the light from the doorway burned away the killer’s face, except for a brief flash of the eyes. The camera passed through the doorway, panned left, and found the room full of dog houses. The screen went dark.

“There are two killers,” I said.

Special Agent Rezvani nodded. “No doubt about it. An accomplice at least. Easy enough to set up a camera for the still pics. He could put it on a tripod during the murder. But it followed the killer, and the picture bounced with each step.” She shut down the video software and pulled up email. “What else?”

“I think they’re killing the women at sea.”

“Why?”

“The camera’s zoomed in tight on the victim, but you can see everything’s cramped in there. The ceiling’s low and arched, like a ship’s cabin. The doghouses are in another section, but again, the walls are concave.”

“You’ve done this before,” she said. “Investigated, I mean.”

“A few times,” I admitted. “Have you sent this to the Bureau?”

She tapped a few keys. “Last night. Nothing back yet.”

“Think it’ll make a difference? Think they’ll reopen the case?”

She looked out of the window, her eyes reflecting the glowering gray sky outside. Another storm. Like clockwork. “No,” she said. “I don’t think they will.”

“But you’re going on,” I said. “You’re still on the case.”

Agent Rezvani’s dark eyes smoldered. “If what we’ve seen is real, there is another young woman dead. The bastards have five left, keeping them in dog houses. But they aren’t going to stop.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to stop them.”

“You’ll have to get in line.” She glared at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was her way of sharing the anger over what was happening or if she was letting me know that she had priority on this case. Either way, there was power there. Something I couldn’t ignore. Special Agent Deanna Rezvani was going to be a factor no matter what I chose to do.

“You going to tell me what happened in your hotel room?” she asked.

“I will. But there’s something I want to check out first.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“Nowhere yet. You have a card? I can call you.”

“You really should get a cell,” she said, reaching into her purse. She handed me a card. “Not all technology is evil.”

“That’s the truth,” I said, tapping my case, then wishing I hadn’t. Never provoke an investigator. I stood up, let the case fall to my side, and changed the subject. “Can you drop me back at the hospital? I left the k—left my car there.”

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The sky was darkening, storm blowing in from the west this time. We’d traveled in silence, but when I stepped out of the car in the hospital parking lot, back out into the wall of heat, I said, “There’s one more thing I picked up from the video. Maybe it will help your friends at the Bureau open their eyes.”