Criss Cross (9 page)

M
icah's apartment was swarming with police officers. They crawled over every inch of space. The fingerprint experts were going to work.

Due to Ronnie Schaefer's ID of Micah as a murder suspect Wolfgang had to investigate. He had reluctantly ordered the search of Micah's apartment. Conspicuously absent was Nugent. He had decided against participating in the search of Micah's home so as not to have a hostile officer on the search, which might be prejudiced materially. Nugent was too close to Micah to be a part of the search, so he and Micah were at the precinct working on other aspects of the case.

Downtown, Micah stood in front of a map of Newark. Red pushpins marked the spots where the bodies of the little boys were found. Pictures of the deceased boys were scattered on the walls.

Nugent sprawled back in deep concentration with his feet propped up. He watched Micah pace in front of the map. Finally he said, “Any word yet?”

Micah stopped pacing. “Yeah. Some. There's no evidence of sexual contact with the boys and Silky's fingerprints were found at the scene of both murders.” Micah dropped the last tidbit of information about Silky as though finding a dead man's fingerprints was a common everyday occurrence.

Nugent shot out of his seat like a cannon. His chair tipped over. “That's impossible.”

Wolfgang walked in, interrupting their conversation. He sat at Micah's desk, sighing loudly. Tension emanated from every pore of the big man's body. “Micah, we searched every inch of your apartment. We did find some prints that are not yours.”

Micah tensed. A look of hope streaked across his face.

Wolfgang waved it away. “The prints belong to Raven Oliver. The only other identifiable prints are yours.”

Micah looked at him incredulously.

Wolfgang continued. “I know it's difficult to believe. But the only prints identifiable are yours and Miss Oliver's.”

Micah's eyes turned to twin chips of slivered ice as he stared at Wolfgang, not believing his ears.

Rigidly, he spoke to Wolfgang as though he were speaking to a child who is hard of understanding, “I'm telling you, Wolfgang, the man had breakfast at my kitchen table. He was in my apartment. He picked up my clothes from the dry cleaners. He left them on my bed. Damn it!” Micah banged his hand on the desk.

He was beginning to lose it. The volume of his voice rose another notch. “There is no way he could do all of that without leaving a trace. What in the hell is going on here? He's not a ghost. He was there. So there must be some evidence of that. Send them back. They must have missed something.”

Wolfgang got up to face Micah. “Micah, I talked to Tony. He loves you like a son. The man thinks the sun rises and sets with you. He said he saw you run early in the morning. He said he saw you run again later in the morning. He thinks you're secretly training for the Olympics. It's the same story with Sung-Yu at the dry cleaners.”

Nugent braced himself for the oncoming onslaught from Micah. He didn't have to wait long. Micah stepped to Wolfgang until he stood nose-to-nose and eye-to-eye with him. He searched the depths of Wolfgang's eyes before saying in a tone dripping with antagonism, “It wasn't me.”

“I know it wasn't.” After a beat Wolfgang broke contact. He walked to the door of Micah's office. Micah and Nugent exchanged glances.

“Oh by the way, I'm releasing Ronnie Schaefer. I'm putting him in a place where he won't be found for a while. I can't afford any leaks and I can't leave him as bait for the press or anyone else's political aspirations. After all, this
is
Newark.”

When he reached the door Wolfgang said, “One more thing. You might want to check on Silky's ashes. Seems he's leaving his fingerprints all over the place. It's a strange thing for a dead man to do. Don't you think?” He walked out the door closing it softly behind him.

Nugent pressed two fingers to the sides of his throbbing temples. “A ghost, you, and a dead man. I have a feeling this is going to get worse, a lot worse, before it gets better.”

T
he following morning six-year-old Byron Williams shuffled his feet playfully through the beautiful array of fallen autumn leaves. He looked up, loving all the colors he saw.

Byron was straggling quite a bit behind the other kids. He returned his attention to the electronic game he was playing. He was absorbed in the graphic characters that had come to life on the tiny screen he held in his hand.

Directly in front of him a man watched Byron, measuring his approach. Byron passed the tree where he stood. A hand reached out. He put a cloth over Byron's nose and mouth. Byron passed out without a whimper.

The delighted squeals and laughter of the other kids continued in the autumn air. They played games. They walked on to school, oblivious to the fact that another one of their own had been stricken.

 

 

Later that morning, Micah and Nugent walked the streets of downtown Newark. They tried to sort out the murders that were taking place.

The street was gearing up for the day's business. Vendors and street merchants were pushing their wares. A number of them waved in Micah and Nugent's direction. Shaughn Braswell saluted. They waved.

Micah was their very own celebrity. They considered him to be one of the coolest, smartest and slickest detectives Newark had ever seen. His smooth, suave manner was a continuous source of imitation.

Micah was completely unaffected by his own celebrity status. He knew he had a special entrée into the community. Keeping that entrée intact was more important to him than his celebrity status.

An old man dressed in heavy black winter clothing with a derby stuck on his head shuffled up to Micah and Nugent. He was a product of Newark's streets. One of the many relics left in the city.

Shuffling his feet, he looked directly at Micah and said, “God is good. God is great. God is good. God is great.” He took his hat off and bowed in front of Micah—much to Micah's surprise. Then he shuffled on down the street.

The people of Newark were used to him. He did this all the time. These were the only words anyone had ever heard him speak. Although never before had he bowed to anyone.

What the people of Newark didn't know was that Isaac was a deeply spiritual man. In his inner coat pocket he carried the only two things he owned in the world: an old worn Bible that had been read so many times the pages were shorn and an old cross. It was made out of tree bark. It was identical to the one Micah wore. There were only four of them in the world.

Micah and Nugent walked in silence. Each of them pondered and weighed what they knew against what they didn't know.

Micah was the first to speak. “We've got to be dealing with a copycat, Nugent. He's using the same signature that Silky used on his victims.”

“Yeah. Get that. The patterns are eerily the same too, man. Except that Silky killed women. These are little boys that are being murdered now. Why different victims? Why little boys all the same age?”

Micah spotted a break in the traffic on Broad Street. He nudged Nugent so they could run across the street.

“Well, the signature definitely connects the murders in some way. Maybe . . . maybe Silky was under orders all along. Maybe there's another killer we never knew about and Silky was the fall guy,” Micah said as a brilliant moment of chilling insight seized him.

He would have liked to reject the idea. The thought of more than one like Silky was enough to freeze the blood in a person's veins. However, the idea refused to vanish or be vanquished. It parked itself firmly in the forefront of his mind.

Micah picked up his pace. He tried to figure out the pieces to the puzzle. It really didn't make sense. Nugent stayed steady beside him.

“Okay,” Nugent said, “A serial killer's signature is like his calling card. It's how he does business. Right? How could the signatures be the same? Down to the stroking? How could the signatures be so exact and committed by two different people, Micah?”

Nugent grabbed Micah's arm. All of his pent-up questions poured out. “What's more how the hell do we explain Silky's fingerprints on the murders that are taking place now? The man is dead. We watched him burn. We watched him die. We saw it with our own eyes. This is getting really weird, man. I've seen murders and I've seen murders, Micah. But I swear if I didn't know any better I would think I'm losing my damn mind.”

Micah was at a loss for words. He looked past Nugent. Gauging the weight of Nugent's words.

His head pounded. He bent over. He put his hands to his head. He righted himself after a short time. Micah shook his head to clear it as Byron Williams's voice exploded into his consciousness. “Mommy!” Byron wailed, “Mommy! Help me! No!” Byron began to cry.

Micah's face twisted. Agony streamed from his eyes. He concentrated. A sledgehammer blow slammed into his brain. Everything went black. He couldn't see. Then his vision cleared. When it did he looked at Nugent. Nugent watched him strangely. “What? What's up? What's the matter?”

Micah acted like he didn't know him. There was no recognition in his face.

Nugent didn't like this crap one bit. He scrutinized Micah. He didn't say a word.

Micah looked around. He didn't know where he was. He stared blankly at Nugent. His whole demeanor changed. His features, his appearance and his stance were transformed.

The new presence was commanding. Micah's entire being had altered in the blink of an eye. Before Nugent stood a man of monstrous, authoritative importance. He wielded great power. And he never slept.

Nugent was looking at a stranger inhabiting Micah's body.

Quentin Curry's voice rose up from the depths of Micah's throat. He assessed Nugent from behind Micah's eyes. He made his position abundantly clear. “When the seed of my enemy is removed all that will remain is for my seed to rule. The sixes and their carriers will be no more.”

With that said, he released Micah's body leaving him on his own. Nugent didn't move a muscle. Recovering he said, “What the hell is wrong with you, Micah?”

For Micah there had been no lapse in time. He continued where he left off hearing Byron's voice. He looked at Nugent. “He's done it again, Nuggie. He's taken another kid.”

Nugent tried to get a grip on the changing tide but Micah was not making this easy for him.

Micah took off in a dead run. Nugent was right behind him.

As they ran up to the police precinct, Derrick Holt spotted them. He called out Micah's name while running over to him.

Micah stopped. He turned around at the sound of his name. “Micah, I need to talk to you.”

Micah shot him an exasperated look. “I said there will be no press on this case, Derrick. I know you got the message.”

Derrick pressed forward, determined not to let the opportunity to speak to Micah slip through his fingers. “I want to talk about Silky. His story's not over. I know it and you know it.”

Micah's eyes turned to glittering chips of crystal as he blew Derrick off. “Silky is dead. The case is dead. It's over, Derrick. Period. There is no story.”

Derrick mulled this over, wondering why everyone kept trying to sell him on that.

He glanced briefly at Nugent, taking note of the little beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. Of course he'd been running, but still. “There's another story, one that didn't come out in court. I believe you know it.”

Micah stepped to Derrick.

“And I believe your imagination is too active. Now get the hell out of here. Find some real work to do.” Micah turned his back on Derrick. He ran up the stairs with Nugent right behind him.

Now wasn't that interesting? The cool, in-control Micah Jordan-Wells had a temper. The slick polish that he generally presented to the media was cracking. Derrick decided to push him all the way over.

“Micah! Satan is walking the municipal halls of Newark. He's leaving his mark all over the place.”

Nugent tossed Derrick a strange look. A quiver inhabited his body at Derrick's words. Micah didn't even break pace.

When they arrived in the office, Micah searchingly looked around as though the right answers would suddenly appear before him.

Nugent asked, “What makes you think he's got another boy?” He searched Micah's eyes but found no explanation there.

“It's just a feeling.”

There was a loud knock on the door.

Gaddy, the office reporter, gofer and sometimes comedian, stuck his head in the door. His usual gayness was missing. He wasn't smiling. He certainly didn't look like he was about to crack any jokes.

He glanced down at a report he was holding in his hand. “Micah, a report just came in. This isn't your area but we thought you might be interested because it involves a six-year-old boy.”

The muscles in Micah's body tensed. Nugent shot Micah a questioning glance.

“Byron Williams never arrived at school this morning. The school notified his mother. She called in a missing person report on him.”

“Where is his school?” Micah asked.

Gaddy glanced at the report again. “Ridgewood Elementary. Over in the area of Mt. Prospect Avenue.” Micah's face went ashen.

Nugent looked strained. There was a decidedly peaked tinge to his coloring.

“Are any patrols out looking for the boy?” Micah said.

“As we speak. Maybe it's not tied in. From what we can gather the kid is a loner. The other kids saw him on the way to school this morning but he never arrived. Missing persons is combing the area and interviewing the mother. I'll keep you posted,” Gaddy told him then closed the door.

After Gaddy left, Micah said to Nugent, “He's putting ass in my face. I live in that neighborhood. He's laughing at me, Nuggie.”

Micah's phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. “Micah Jordan-Wells here.”

A familiar laugh resounded in Micah's ear. Micah was startled. A voice from the dead floated over the wire.

Nugent watched as an electrified expression flashed across Micah's face.

Silky said, “Micah, I am risen. How do you like my new bag of tricks?”

Micah didn't answer. It was unmistakably Silky's voice. He didn't utter a word. He was stiff with disbelief.

“What's the matter? The cat got your tongue? Haven't you ever spoken to a dead man before? Well, here's something that'll loosen your tongue, my brother. Byron Williams is gonna die today unless you do what I say. It don't make me no never mind.”

Micah swiftly recovered. He didn't know what he was dealing with but he would go to any lengths to save this kid's life and find out.

Adrenaline shot through his veins. He mouthed the word “Silky,” to Nugent pointing to the phone. Nugent looked at him like he was crazy.

“Name it.”

“Penn Station,” Silky told him.

“Be there. Three p.m. is the hour. Wait by the shoeshine booth. Stand directly in front of the bank of phones. Don't bother trying to set it up because I'll know. I know all your moves, Micah. And by the way, I really enjoyed breakfast at your place. Except for your music. You've got some catching up to do, man.” Silky laughed. The click of the phone sounded loudly in Micah's ear.

Micah looked at Nugent. “That was Silky. Three p.m., Penn Station is show time. Go get Wolfgang. Tell him Silky's been resurrected.”

Nugent stalked angrily to the door.

He flung it open and turned back to look at Micah. “There is only one man in the history of the world that had the power to resurrect and his name ain't Silky.” Nugent slammed the door behind him. He was tired of playing games with lunatics.