Authors: Wayne Batson
“Invited him, what in the—”
She cut him off too. “Mr. Spector was the one who sent us the photos from the camera he found, remember, Sir? He’s also the one who broke the Cuban mafia’s sex-trafficking ring. He’s proved an invaluable ally and consultant in all my efforts investigating Smiling Jack. He’s the only help I’ve had, Sir, since I’m working during my vacation.”
“Touché,” Barnes replied. He glanced down. “What’s with the silver suitcase?”
“Tools,” I said.
“Uh, huh.” Barnes looked like I’d just spat a glob into his bowl of cereal. “He needs to leave.”
“But, Sir, he’s—”
Barnes held up a hand. “My final word.”
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* * *
Mortified and angry, Rez had offered a variety of apologies and promised to call and keep me in the loop. I tried to reassure her. Honestly, I preferred to work from the outside. Teaming up with Rez was one thing, but working in concert with dozens and dozens of FBI agents and higher-ups, well…that wasn’t a very good idea. The fewer people who knew anything about me the better.
I drove back to Panama City. While waiting for any new leads the FBI’s best and brightest could find, I wasn’t about to sit still. The condition of the body, the wounds…they led to questions, questions that maybe Doc Shepherd could help answer. In fact, Doc Shepherd suddenly seemed like an underutilized asset. I’d turned over a stone, but not dug down deep enough to find what I was looking for.
The killers had been sending a message all along. Only now, they were sending the message louder. And somehow, I still wasn’t getting it.
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The sun was setting beautifully over the western corner of the Gulf, soaking the towering pillars of clouds billowing to the far north. Maybe my awe of creation was why I didn’t pick up the tail until just a few blocks from Panama City Beach Hospital Center. It was a black SUV, but I wasn’t sure of the make. One of those Hummer wannabes, for sure. Blocky military body, wide axles, and tinted glass.
I guess the FBI couldn’t just let me walk away. I shrugged and pulled into the hospital’s visitor lot. The pseudo-Hummer drove right on by. They’d turn a block down, circle back, and park just in time to watch me disappear through the revolving door. They’d be waiting for me when I left, and I made a mental note to spot them quick. I’d also need to get my car out of sight so I could check it over for tracers or bugs. Of course, maybe the agents would be so bold as to run a check on the car. If so, they’d likely mistake me for a hitman. The irony was not lost on me.
But still, I could not afford the time or the hassle an arrest would cost me right now. I entered the hospital, strode beneath the atrium’s moronic cherubim, and boarded an elevator. No one stopped me. No one asked me for a badge. Perhaps it was the expression on my face. I’d been told on one occasion that my “angry and determined face” could break a mirror…and the wall behind it.
“Is Doctor Shepherd available?” I asked bleached-blond Nurse Pelagris.
“One moment, Officer,” she said. “Actually, yes. He’s just finished a consultation and doesn’t have any procedures until this evening. You remember the way to his office?”
I nodded and found my way to Doc Shepherd. He welcomed me into his office with a broad smile and a glint in his pale blue eyes. Nothing about his expression said he was surprised to see me.
“Officer Spector,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. We both sat, and he asked, “So, any progress on the case? Were you able to track down the blades? Cain’s Daggers that were bought or sold in the past ten years?”
“I haven’t had a chance,” I replied. “Things have…things have escalated.”
“Oh?”
“It’s why I’ve come back.” I told Doc Shepherd about the recent murder. As I explained the details, I watched the color drain out of his face and then return a few minutes later, darkening to angry red.
When I had finished, Doc asked, “So the ME believes the young woman bled out, but not necessarily from the throat?”
I nodded.
“Are you certain this was one of the women in the pictures?” he asked.
“Positive. Why?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but none of the other victims had vaginal trauma.”
“No,” I replied. “Not that we’re aware of.”
“That’s a very puzzling thing for you to say, Officer Spector,” Doc said. “You mentioned several previous victims…I’m assuming they were all thoroughly examined.”
Things were about to get dicey. “Doc Shepherd, can I count on your discretion in this matter?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever heard of the Smiling Jack Murders?” I asked.
It wasn’t so much that his expression changed but it was as if the skin on his face tightened instantaneously. He didn’t answer my question. “Go on,” was all he said.
“Until now,” I said, “there haven’t been any bodies left behind. Only pictures.”
“Uh, huh,” he said, twirling his mustache in a most dispirited fashion.
“The latest victim is indeed one of the young women from the Smiling Jack photographs,” I said. “It’s the first physical evidence we’ve had to go on.”
“We?” Doc Shepherd asked.
I hadn’t realized I’d used that particular pronoun. “The FBI,” I said.
“I thought the FBI dropped the Smiling Jack case,” he said. “In their professional assessment, it was a hoax.”
“It wasn’t a hoax,” I said. “They just weren’t smart enough to find the clues they needed.”
“They?” Doc Shepherd asked.
Speaking of
not smart enough
. I wanted to hit myself, preferably with something large and blunt. “The FBI,” I replied.
Doc Shepherd folded his hands on his desk. “You know, Mr. Spector,” he said, “I find myself wondering a great deal about you and your involvement in all this. When I met you, I thought everything about you spoke of professional law enforcement. But now, I’m thinking that was because Carol told me a cop was coming up to see me. But now, I hear you say we, implying you’re part of the FBI, and then they, implying that you are not. You aren’t actually with the FBI, are you?”
“No,” I replied, feeling ridiculous.
“You never did correct me when I called you officer,” he said. “FBI would go with agent, I believe. Still, now I’m wondering if you are even with the police. Well, are you?”
“No,” I said, “I am not.”
“Mr. Spector,” he said, his voice taking on an edge I had not heard before. “I’ll accept that I made all the assumptions here, that I alone am at fault for being wrong about you. But you allowed me to carry on with those assumptions. You accepted my help under false pretenses, no matter whose fault those pretenses were. In my book, that’s a violation of trust.”
Guilty as charged. He had me dead-to-rights, but he did not understand the whole picture. I don’t know how he could. “Doctor Shepherd,” I said, “Trust is a precious commodity in this world and, for what it’s worth, I never intended to mislead you. However, I did allow you to believe those things about me because…well, because the truth would be harder to believe.”
He blinked, and I could tell that, behind that blue-eyed gaze, tens of thousands of possibilities were racing in the circuitry of his mind. “Try me,” he said.
I took a deep breath. I’d been through this before. How much could I reveal? How would he react? What greater damage could occur? I made up my mind, and I was about to give him some information when his desk phone rang.
He took up the receiver. “Shepherd,” he said. He listened intently for a few moments and then, his voice suddenly full of command, he said, “Tell Nurse Cathy to get down to the blood bank. Uh, huh, right…all the A-positive we can get. I want the bypass ready and waiting when I arrive. And get someone to the freezer to wait. If I can’t create something internally, I’m going to need something PDQ.” He hung up the phone and stood.
“Emergency?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I need to cut this conversation short,” Doc Shepherd said. “A man is dying upstairs, and I’m on the clock.”
I stood up and started to speak, but he held up a hand.
“Don’t say anything more,” Doc Shepherd said. “Not now. We’re both in a hurry, and liable to make mistakes. But, Mr. Spector, if you want any additional assistance from me, you’ll need to level with me. And God help you if your involvement in the murders of these young women is anything but noble.” The threat lingered in the air even after Doc Shepherd left the office.
I’d learned nothing more to help me, and I may have sealed off a very important source of information. All in all, not a stellar effort.
* * *
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When I passed through the hospital’s sliding exit doors, it felt like leaving an airlock for another planet. The heat seemed to boil up from the pavement and broil down from above. The heat must have triggered a hallucination because I suddenly heard a bouncy tune full of violins, bells, harps, and flutes—a tune that couldn’t possibly have clashed with my mood any worse than it did.
I am sixteen going on seventeen
I know that I’m naive.
Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet…
“No,” I muttered. As I fumbled in my coat pocket for the cell, I finally realized I’d been had.
I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…
An older married couple walked by just then, whispering and snickering merrily as I came up empty in the two outer pockets.
I need someone older and wiser,
Telling me what to do…
Finally, I snagged the phone out of the left hand inner pocket. I smashed down the green button and growled, “Liesl’s song from The Sound of Music…really, Rez?”
I thought I’d have to endure peals of triumphant laughter, but when Rez spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically stiff…robotic and tersely professional. “Mr. Spector, I’m calling you on behalf of FBI Deputy Director Barnes.”
“What can I do for you, Agent Rezvani?” I replied, playing along—though I had no idea what game we were playing.
“Mr. Spector, I am calling to inform you that the case, hitherto known as Smiling Jack, is exclusively the domain of the FBI.”
Hitherto? Who talks like that?
“And so, Mr. Spector, you are advised to cease and desist all activities that may relate to the case.” There was a pause, and I heard a gruff male voice say something unintelligible in the background. “In fact, Mr. Spector,” Rez went on, “if you involve yourself in the Smiling Jack investigation—in any way—you will be arrested and charged with felony interference in a federal case.”
“Felony interference?” I echoed. “Are you sure there is such a thing?”
“I hope you understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Spector,” Rez said, her voice sounding pained and raw. “Lives are at stake.”
“I understand completely,” I said, wondering how much of this she really expected me to honor. And how much of this would she honor?
“From this point on, Mr. Spector,” she said, “we will have no further contact. Violations of any kind will result in my dismissal from the FBI and your incarceration. Please reply to indicate that you have understood this official warning.”
I had to fight down a bile-filled wave of rage. I’m not sure I succeeded entirely. “Let the record show,” I said through clenched teeth, “I have been so informed.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Spector.” She hung up. Just like that.
Chapter 21
I drove the hitman’s car away from the hospital and didn’t care if I still had a tail. If the FBI wanted to play cat and mouse with me, fine. They’d figure out in short order which one of us was the cat. And this cat was in one serious bad mood.
In the past six hours, the biggest lead in the Smiling Jack case had been laid out in front of me…and then snatched away. The FBI had cut me off. Doc Shepherd had cut me off. And, in spite of her previous pledge, Agent Rezvani had cut me off too. Of course, it was my fault for trying to collaborate, but that was not the predominating thought in my mind at this moment.
I thought sure Rez would have called me back, maybe when she got out from under the blazing glare of the Deputy Director. But I’d driven around for an hour without even so much as an “I am sixteen, going on seventeen,” warbling out of the phone.
So I already had a chip the size of a garbage truck on my shoulder when I happened to drive by a billboard sign. “Great Progress Clinic for Women,” it read. “Where a Woman’s Choice is Held Sacred.” There was a phone number and the exit listed as well.
I should have known better. I should have looked away and driven on. After all, I needed a new base of operations for Internet research. Like I said, I should have known better.
But, after spending the afternoon wallowing in disgust over my lack of progress and all the dead ends, I found myself taking the exit for the clinic. I parked on a side street about a hundred yards away from the front doors. Great Progress Clinic for Women looked like a giant spider built from steel, glass, and stone. Its hub was a blocky, two-story structure capped with a bluish dome, and its appendage-like wings sprawled out all around it.
I told myself I was there to think about the facts of the Smiling Jack case. The murder weapon was, after all, a turn of the century abortion instrument. Smiling Jack chose the weapon because he has a message to send, and maybe if I spent some time at an abortion clinic, a new angle might present itself.
But that was just psychological slight-of-hand.
The truth was, I had come to the clinic because I was angry. The rage had been building for days now, and I needed an outlet soon, or bad things would happen. So I’d come to the clinic to turn it loose.