Authors: Wayne Batson
“Browser,” I muttered, “looks like it’s just me and you.” I began searching child abductions in the Shreveport area in and around the time Erica Graziano had been taken. Then I began sifting the results for anything meaningful. It wasn’t a needle in a haystack, but it was close. I hoped Agent Rezvani was having better luck.
* * *
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* * *
Agent Rezvani was sitting in Doc Shepherd’s office when he arrived early in the morning. “Well…uh, hello,” he said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “When the nurses told me an FBI agent was in my office, I was kind of expecting someone else.”
“Spector?” Rez asked.
“Precisely.”
“I’m Special Agent Deanna Rezvani,” she said. “But, ah…Spector’s not with the FBI,” Rez said.
“Not FBI either,” he said. “I found out the other day he wasn’t local law. You know, Agent Rezvani, I don’t much appreciate being lied to.”
“Spector wasn’t lying,” Rez said. “At least not in the sense you mean it.”
“I wish I could believe that,” Shepherd said, his tone still pleasant. He parked behind his desk and folded his hands. “Mr. Spector flashed a badge and let on as if he were some kind of official investigator.”
“He is,” Rezvani explained. “Just not FBI. He’s higher up than that. Heck, he’s at a clearance level I’ve never encountered before. If he misled you, you can be certain that it is because he is not permitted to reveal certain details about his occupation.”
Doctor Shepherd leaned back a few inches and twirled his mustache. “Spector’s above your pay grade?”
“Far above.”
“Now, that’s a stitch of a different color,” he said, a twinkle in his ice-blue eyes, “And, I must confess I am glad to hear that. Very glad. I’ve always felt I was a good judge of character. Spector seemed like an honorable man, but I thought he’d put one over on me. You’ve done me a service, Agent Rezvani, and I appreciate it. If you ever need a heart procedure, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
Rez paused. “Uhm, hopefully that won’t be necessary, but if I do, I’ll remember you.”
“That’s fair. Now, why have you come to see me, Agent? Are you working the case of the young woman murdered recently, a series of killings, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Spector and I were—are—working together on it. Have you heard of the Smiling Jack killings?”
“Smiling Jack,” he said, nodding wistfully. “Spector named the case for me, and I’ve followed it some. The Bureau declared it a hoax, but Spector said it was real.”
Agent Rezvani frowned. “We had no physical evidence,” she said. “We had no missing person’s reports. No one identified the alleged victims. All we had were photographs. I’m quoting the party line, you understand. Truth is, we never should have closed the case.”
“The young woman at Fort Pickens?” Doc Shepherd asked. “She was in those awful photographs?”
“She was,” Rezvani said. “And now that we have a body to match with the photos, the Bureau is putting all its muscle into catching the killers. And that’s why I’ve come to you.”
“The weapon,” he said.
“Spector said you have special insight about the knife. It’s surgical, turn of the century.”
“Not what I would call surgical,” Shepherd corrected. “It was used for abortions. Cain’s Dagger, it was called. Do you understand the reference?”
Agent Rezvani vaguely remembered the story of Cain and Abel. Cain murdered Abel, hadn’t he? She couldn’t remember why or any other details. She chose not to answer the question. “Spector said that the knife is quite old and quite rare, that you might have access to a list of owners.”
Doc Shepherd eyed her for a few silent moments. He reached up and twirled his mustache. “Agent Rezvani,” he said, “I come from a long line of surgeons. We’ve spent generations trying to save lives and inventing better ways to do so. If information I can provide will help you save the lives of other young women, then I will be in your debt for the opportunity. But, if what Mr. Spector told me is true, the practice of abortion is somehow mixed up in this whole thing. And that concerns me greatly.”
Agent Rezvani swallowed. She couldn’t afford to cut off this source, but she needed to be up front. “Doctor Shepherd,” she said, “are you saying that you might withhold information depending on the political slant of this case?”
“Absolutely not,” Doctor Shepherd said, each word a scalpel stroke. “I’m going to assume that you deal quite frequently with political agendas, with that manner of power-brokering vacillation in the FBI?”
“Almost daily,” she said.
“Then, I will forgive your insinuation. I will give you everything within my power to give.” He paused, reached into a drawer, and removed a piece of paper filled, margin-to-margin with text and numbers. “This is a list of every known Cain’s Dagger knife, its original owner, its purchase history, and its current owner. If my source is to be believed, there are only six knives surviving.”
“Who is your source? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“My Uncle Timothy,” he said, straightening his lively turquoise bow tie. “He was once an orthopedic surgeon of some renown. Ninety-two now but still razor-keen intellect. He’s a bit of a collector of surgical implements. He knew just who to call in Europe to find out about the blade.”
“In Europe?”
“That’s where the blade was made,” Doc replied. “A collector associate of Uncle Tim’s put him on to it straight away.”
“May I have the list?”
He slid the paper to Rez. “I would like you to promise me something.”
Rez took the sheet. “It’s hard for me to make promises,” she said, “when I’m in my official capacity, that is. I’ll do my best.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll accept that. This is what I ask: Smiling Jack used a nineteenth century abortion implement to murder young women. I think it’s clear the weapon was chosen for a purpose. He’s promoting a message of some kind, and it’s not clear, to me at least, what manner of message he’s trying to send. But Agent Rezvani, make no mistake, Smiling Jack wants everyone to know what he’s doing and why. He wants press. He wants attention. All I ask you is this, whether Smiling Jack is some sick Pro Lifer or something else, will you do your best to make sure that his message does not get heard?”
Agent Rezvani blinked. Doc Shepherd surprised her.
“At this point,” she said, “I’m not sure. I’ve recently entertained the idea that the killing cycles match the rise of Pro Life Presidential candidates. But whatever his message, Smiling Jack is a murderer. If there’s anything I can do to mute his message, I will do it.”
“Thank you, Agent Rezvani,” he said. “And please, when you see Mr. Spector, pass along my apologies for a misunderstanding. And do let him know that I’d like to see him again before this is all over.”
“I will,” she said. She stood up with the list, scanning it as she started to leave. Then she froze. “One of the Cain’s Daggers,” she said, “it’s owned by a doctor in this hospital.”
“I’m aware of that,” Doc Shepherd said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a valve replacement to prepare for.”
* * *
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* * *
The only good thing about the Internet cafe was the coffee. My search results had proved utterly fruitless. Nearly all of the remotely similar child abductions in Shreveport had resulted in a body being discovered or the lost child returning, found, or rescued. There were a handful of unsolved disappearances, but five of those had been male children. The rest had been girls already in their teens. I couldn’t completely rule out the girls, but they didn’t seem to fit Smiling Jack’s MO.
I was disgusted. The whole case had been like this. Every promising start, every revealing clue, led to a dead end. I lifted the great mug to my lips and drank deeply. When I lowered it again, the man who called himself Mr. Scratch sat across from me.
“Dear, oh dear,” he said, feigned distress dripping from his words. “I do believe I have seen you looking better.”
“I’ve had better days,” I replied, playing along. I still had no clear evaluation of this man. His eyes showed no sign of being taken, and yet there was definitely something unwholesome about him.
“Better days? Better weeks is more like it, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, crossing a leg and leaning back in his chair. It was the same black pinstripe zoot suit. But his tie was even more obnoxious than last time: light blue background with a dazzling array of multicolored butterflies, all with a metallic sheen.
“What’s with the garish tie?” I asked.
He grinned, the painfully white teeth lighting up against his deep tan. “That’s for me to know,” he said, “and for you, to find out.” He paused, leaned forward, tented his fingers. “I tell you, Ghost, I cannot for the life of me understand why you insist on doing things the hard way.”
“Maybe you could help me do things the easy way?”
“Oh, most certainly,” he said. “I already have, of course, many times.”
“I told you before: I don’t remember you.”
“Pity,” he said. “I certainly cannot imagine why you would wash away memories of someone like me. Doesn’t it trouble you at all? This isn’t the first time you’ve
forgotten
me, you know.”
“Actually, it does bother me,” I said.
“Such admirable honesty,” he said. “One thing I can count on from—”
“It bothers me because I don’t wash something from my memory unless it’s deeply disturbing, corrosive even. You know what else bothers me?”
“Pray, do tell.” He tugged gently at the brim of his fedora. Honestly, the man seemed to be made of jazz. Every movement was stylishly graceful.
I lowered my voice to a caustic whisper. “It bothers me that you know something about Smiling Jack that you aren’t telling me. It bothers me that you sit here wasting my time with your punk smug routine while innocent women are dying.”
“Are you not thankful for that dreadful tool of yours that I so generously returned?”
I blinked a glance down. The Edge was in the top left hand pocket of my cargo shorts. It was a great comfort. “Changes nothing,” I said.
He laughed jauntily. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, it most certainly does change things. I have helped you twice now and asked nothing in return.”
I ground my teeth, tiring of his nonsense. “Your advice was lousy,” I muttered.
“What you mean to say is that your intuitive faculties were too limited to unravel my advice in a…timely manner.”
Sometimes the way forward is the way back.
What kind of stupid, cryptic—then, it dawned on me. “Graziano,” I whispered. “Smiling Jack took them as children.”
“Ah, there now, you see?” Scratch said, “that was useful, was it not? My advice is always useful. Useful and rich, layer upon layer of meaning.”
Melanie appeared at the table. “My shift is over,” she said, gesturing to my mug. “Can I get you anything else before I go?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “You more than earned your tip.”
“What about your friend?” she asked.
“Brilliant young woman,” Scratch said. “Here just a moment and yet, she intuits that we are indeed friends. Splendid.” His left hand sliced a velvet curve in the air and ducked beneath the table. When it returned, he had the gold pocket watch. “But I am afraid that I don’t have time for coffee. Thank you, dear, for the courtesy.”
Melanie blushed and left the table.
I watched closely as Scratch twirled the pocket watch once on its chain and then replaced it. “That’s an ugly scar on your wrist,” I said.
“What?” he snapped. And I saw again that lightning glimpse of pure hatred.
I decided to press him. “Your left wrist,” I said, nodding. “The scar. Looks like it must have been painful.”
He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward, the very first bit of motion from him that didn’t look like ultra-slick dance. His dark eyes smoldered, the irises tremoring slightly as if boiling in the whites. His glare was painful and searching, and I found myself holding my breath.
“Have you remembered…something?” he hissed.
I didn’t answer. The question didn’t make sense. I’d seen the scars on his wrists the first time we met. You didn’t forget that kind of thing. It didn’t seem like that could be what Scratch meant. I did my best to glare back.
Suddenly, like the switch of a light, his face melted back into smooth. “No,” he muttered. “I thought not. You know, Ghost, it’s a shame you had to get nasty. I could have given you a great deal of assistance tonight. A real shame.” He stood up and, in turn, pulled taut the cuffs of his shirt. He walked slowly past our table but stopped near my side. He whispered, “Another will die tonight because of you.”
Rage bubbling up inside, I spun out from my chair and took hold of his forearm. At least…I thought I had. With speed that shocked me and that easy fluidity, Scratch shook off my grasp and moved a step backward. He wore that sharkish grin when he said, “Perhaps, it was good for you to forget about me. Perhaps, I ought to forget about you, as well.”
“Wait,” I said, the rage draining. “Please, tell me what you know. Tell me something. How can I save her?”
He shook his head and made a tisking sound. “Too late for that, my dear Ghost,” he said, and his eyes flashed with that horrible malice. “I have borne your stupidity with graciousness. But no more. How dare you offer me such effrontery and then beg for help.”
“I’m not begging,” I said, the words gone before my thoughts could caution me against using them.
Scratch blinked. “To think I came prepared to bail you out…all manner of information to share. I even dressed for your benefit.”
It was my turn to blink. Dressed for my benefit? What kind of ridicu—the tie. Something about the tie. Butterflies?
“Hmph,” he said, the sound somehow thoughtful…calculating. “Perhaps, you aren’t as dull-witted as I feared. Good luck, my dear Ghost.” He turned his back on me and swayed toward the cafe door. He paused there and gave his head a half turn. “Just remember,” he said, his voice taking on a saw’s edge, “the next time we meet, things will be different. This is three times I have given you aid. Your side of the ledger is ruefully empty.”