A Killer in Time

by Jim Laughter

  “I wonder who that damn car belongs to?” Cooper said.

  Benjamin shook his head.

  “Not a clue. But it sure wasn’t on the motorcade manifest. I know that for a fact.”

  “I know damn well I saw it at the White House when we were leaving on the bus,” Cooper said. “I still can’t figure out how they got it to Andrews ahead of us.”

  “Beats the hell out of me, Coop.”

  “You’ve been hanging around Morris too much,” Cooper laughed, chiding his friend. “You’re starting to talk like the old bastard.”

  Benjamin thought about Cooper’s words. He hated casual profanity; Christian cuss words his father called them. As a boy he’d even been admonished against saying gosh and golly, jeez and heck, even shoot when used in place of another common profanity.

  The Christian profanity he hated worse, and the one that got him whacked more than once as a child was ‘Oh My God’, an expression bandied around even by young children. He thought about his wife Latrice, and how she loved to watch Home and Garden Television, especially the shows where a set of twin brothers renovate old, rundown houses into people’s dream homes, even if the old shacks cost a half-million dollars. But you couldn’t watch an episode without some kid hollering “Oh My God!” when they see their new home for the first time.

  He rubbed his hand across the Bible in his jacket pocket next to where he usually kept his weapon—a weapon he did not have on him right now. The third of the Ten Commandments clearly prohibited taking the Lord’s name in vain, and what could be any worse than using God’s name as an exclamation without any degree of praise? He determined to watch his conversation from here on out, even with Cooper but especially around Morris and Keller.

  “You two gonna stand around pullin' your peckers all day or are you gonna help unload this gear?” Toolie called to the agents.

  Cooper and Benjamin pitched in and helped move gear from the cargo hold to various vehicles in the motorcade. It reminded Cooper of his first assignment with Benjamin when they’d unloaded gear from the FBI Director’s jet in Nashville three years ago.

  This was a different assignment. He didn’t feel his life was in danger then even though they were chasing a serial killer that had murdered almost a dozen people.

  The killer they were after now was a different monster altogether. This was a man who’d proven he could kill with absolute precision, his killing pattern resembled that of a mysterious murderer from over a century ago, and he was linked to power at the highest levels. They didn’t know how he was connected to the chief executive; they were just certain he was. Without being able to gain access to the President, Cooper doubted if they’d ever winnow out a viable suspect.

  An hour and a half after the giant transports landed, Toolie directed his drivers to their vehicles and told them to stay put until the motorcade assembled upon arrival of Air Force One. He told Benjamin and Cooper to sit in the black Suburban they’d seen at the White House garage and not leave the vehicle unless directed by him.

  Benjamin did not like this development one bit. He’d hoped to be in a position to mix with other members of the motorcade and perhaps gain valuable insight into who might be the maniac they were looking for. He already suspected this was a tight-knit group of people anyhow and might be reluctant to talk to strangers about the people in the motorcade. Now it looked like they’d be left in the dark and separated from anyone that might help them find the killer.

  The only saving grace of sitting in the Suburban was its location. Being the third vehicle in the motorcade, they’d have ready access to the presidential limousine should anything happen to the executive transport. The Suburban’s location in the hanger was right next to the ambulance and the mysterious Lincoln Town Car. If nothing else, at least they’d get to see who owned the car.

  The driver’s door opened and Jake, the mechanic from the White House garage, slid in behind the steering wheel. Instead of mechanics overalls, he wore a chauffeur uniform much like Cooper and Benjamin.

  This didn’t make any sense to either of the agents. Why would a common mechanic be sitting behind the wheel of a motorcade primary vehicle instead of staying in the background with the rest of the support personnel?

  Benjamin noticed something else odd about Jake; something he did not expect. It was obvious by the underlying outline on Jake’s jacket that he wore a shoulder holster. Why would a mechanic be armed? Who was this guy, and why hadn’t Toolie told them he would be in their car?

  “Jake?” Benjamin said.

  Jake turned around and smiled at the agents, laughing at their stunned expressions.

  “Didn’t 'spect to see me, did ya?”

  Benjamin shook his head, still astonished at seeing Jake.

  “What the hell?” Cooper said.

  “You’re a driver?” Benjamin asked.

  Jake nodded. “Yep.”

  “But you’re a mechanic.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then what the hell?” Cooper asked again.

  “I’m both.”

  “Both?”

  Jake nodded.

  “I drive this here vehicle, and I’m the chief mechanic for The Beast.”

  “The Beast?”

  “Yep,” Jake said. “Nobody touches that car 'cept I approve it. And I mean nobody. Well, 'cept Toolie.”

  George and Cooper leaned back into the overstuffed Suburban seats and considered this new revelation. Was anything as it should be on this motorcade? They’d been assigned to drive cars they’d never sit in, investigate activity in a house they couldn’t enter, and ferret out a killer without any clear evidence that he was really a part of the presidential party.

  Now they find that a common garage mechanic drives one of the most important vehicles in the motorcade. And he was strapped, which means he must be an agent since only the Secret Service drives the presidential limousine or carry firearms. And then there’s that damn black Lincoln Town Car.

  “Jake?” Benjamin said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jake was busy going over a copy of the motorcade route so he didn’t turn around and face the agents.

  “Jake, what’s the deal with that Town Car sitting there by the ambulance? We noticed it on the plane.”

  Jake stopped checking the route map and turned around in his seat. It looked like he was going to snap at Benjamin for even mentioning the Lincoln.

  “You fellas just best not fool 'round with that there car.”

  “Jake?”

  “That car’s off limits to ever body. And I do mean ever body. Even me and Toolie don’t screw with it. Ain’t nobody touches it 'cept the agent that drives the damn thing on and off the plane and the sum’bitch that owns it.”

  Strange, Benjamin thought.

  “Cooper said he saw it at the White House when we were leaving on the bus for Andrews.”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Ain’t no way you seen that car at the White House.”

  “But I’m sure…” Cooper started, but Jake cut him off.

  “That car ain’t never been to the White House. You prob’ly seen doc’s other car. The one he drives in town.”

  “Doc?”

  Both agents scooted forward on the back seat of the Suburban until they were face-to-face with Jake. Benjamin looked deep into his eyes to see if the driver/mechanic was pulling his leg. He wasn’t, at least as far as he could tell. Then again, nothing about this assignment made much sense.

  “President’s doctor,” Jake said. “Goes ever where he goes.”

  “His doctor?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And his car?”

  “He’s got two just ’xacly alike,” Jake said. “Keeps one of 'em in DC at his house and drives it to his office and 'round town. That’s the one you seen at the White House. This'un he stores at Andrews with the other motorcade vehicles. And you can bet your good boots ain’t nobody screws around with it, not if'n they wanna keep their job they don’t.”


  Jake turned back around in his seat and continued examining the motorcade route, unaware he’d given valuable information to two FBI agents.

  “Only difference in the two is the seats,” Jake said, not looking back at George.

  “The seats?”

  “Uh-huh. He keeps the seats of this'un covered in plastic.”

  “Plastic?” George asked. “Plastic seat covers?”

  “Uh-huh,” Jake answered. “I can tell ya right now that if I had me a fancy-ass car like that with leather seats, I sure as hell wouldn’t cover 'em with plastic.”

  Incredible, George thought. Of all the dumb-ass ways to stumble onto a clue, this has to be the stupidest coincidence of all, then he remembered his self-imposed admonishment to curb his language; his thoughts included.

  “Jake,” George said, “what’s the doctor’s name?”

  Jake spun back around in his seat so fast it startled Benjamin. Without thinking, he tried to slide his right hand inside his coat where his weapon should be but his chauffeur jacket was buttoned up. Besides, he didn’t have his weapon; only his Bible.

  Instead of a threat, Jake pointed his left index finger at George, then at Cooper. The expression on his face telegraphed a message that George had asked a forbidden question. Jake started to say something but didn’t. Instead, he paused. His demeanor changed. Then he laughed.

  “You know,” he said, all similitude of threat gone from his face and voice, “it beats the hell out’ta me what the doc’s name is.”

  Now it was George’s turn to be astonished. “Jake?”

  “I ain’t never heard him called nothin' 'cept doc,” Jake said. “And I ain’t never spoke to him personal.”

  “You’ve never spoken to him?”

  “Oh hell no,” Jake said. “Doc’s strictly off limits. Ain’t nobody allowed to say nothin' to him. Chief of Staff don’t even talk to him. He’s one stuck up sum'bitch. Stays to his self when we’re on the road and don’t talk to nobody. Sits all by his lonesome on the big plane. He’s got a pickle up his ass, that one. Thinks his shit don’t stink.”

  George leaned back in the seat again; his head spinning and his mind going wild with incredible thoughts. Cooper sat beside him but he didn’t seem nearly as astonished at this new revelation as he should have been. George saw in Cooper’s eyes that he’d made the same connection but neither agent was willing to say it out loud, at least not with Jake in the car.

  The urge to reach for his cell phone to call Morris and Keller was almost unbearable. Regardless of the risk, he would have to find a place along their route where he could secret himself long enough to call Washington, even though he’d been warned against it. He could feel it in his bones that there was something in one of the files about a witness seeing a car in one of the murder cities. His mind was a whirlwind. He couldn’t remember which city it was where the murder had happened or what kind of car, if any, had been seen. The words ‘executive model’ kept rolling around in his mind.

  A half-hour after Benjamin and Cooper were directed to the Suburban, Air Force One touched down at San Francisco International Airport and taxied to a pad set aside for the chief executive. Cooper and Benjamin watched while the presidential limousines were unloaded from the executive jet and moved into position for the President’s descent from the motorized stairs that had been wheeled into place at the exit door.

  Before long, the President and his entourage left the plane and made their way to their awaiting transports. Following close behind the President, yet staying clear of everyone else, was a man neither Benjamin nor Cooper had seen before. Benjamin felt a cold chill crawl up his back.

  After the President was safely tucked away inside The Beast, the lone man ambled across the massive hanger toward the ambulance and the black Suburban. Cooper and Benjamin watched in absolute astonishment when he reached into his right front pants pocket and produced an electronic door key and pressed it. The lights flashed on one of the cars and a horn sounded. Without even looking around as if he were bored to be there, the man opened the driver’s door of the black Lincoln Town Car and slid in behind the wheel.

  Cooper and Benjamin faced each other. “A black man,” they said together.

  Jake glanced behind him at the two agents.

  “Damn right he’s a black man,” he said. “What’d you expect, Colonel Sanders and his finger lickin' white suit?”

  According to the motorcade information they’d been provided, the President’s doctor rode in the ambulance. Why would this man have gotten into the Lincoln? And if he rides in the ambulance, when does he transfer to it, and who drives his car to the hotel? There were just too many unanswered questions.

  “That’s the President’s doctor?” Benjamin asked Jake.

  At that moment the tail lights on The Beast flashed and the car started moving forward behind an escort of motorcycle cops, their lights ablaze and sirens wailing. An anonymous voice sounded in Jake’s earpiece that POTUS was on the move. He dropped the Suburban into gear and fell into the third position in the motorcade.

  “Jake?” Benjamin said again. “Was that the President’s doctor that got into the Town Car?”

  “'Course that’s him,” Jake answered, not taking his eyes off the limousine in front of them. “Who else you reckon would be settin' his ass in it?”

  “I’d think the doctor would ride in the ambulance,” George probed.

  “He does.”

  “But.”

  “Town car gets put back on the plane and flies to Sacramento and will be waitin’ for him at the hotel,” Jake said. “Ambulance is at the back of the motorcade. He’ll be in it before they pull out. You can be sure of that.”

  “I’m a son of a bitch,” Cooper whispered to George.

  George nodded and sat back in the seat. He turned around and looked out the back window of the Suburban, seeing the motorcade take form behind them. The ambulance hove into view a dozen vehicles back.

  “Me too,” he said.

  He thought about the man riding in the ambulance. Could this be the man they were looking for? Could the personal doctor of the most powerful man in the world be a serial killer? Could the spirit of Jack the Ripper really be riding in a vehicle a scant hundred yards away from them?

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The motorcade made slow progress from the airport to the Academy of Sciences and arrived only scant minutes before 9:30 am. As they suspected, George and Cooper were ordered to stay with their vehicle. There was nothing unusual about the order since none of the drivers ever attended a presidential function. Jake moved away from the Suburban and mingled with a few of the other drivers and Secret Service agents but never left sight of their vehicle. George wondered if Jake had become suspicious of their questions and was discussing it with the other agents.

  The route from the academy to San Francisco University had already been cleared so there was very little traffic on the streets as the motorcade made its way down Park Presidio Boulevard to Richmond. Benjamin could still imagine the red line from the map display working its way across the screen on the C-17.

  Regardless how secret the President’s route had been kept, there always seemed to be a crowd awaiting his arrival. Someone had alerted the media. Onlookers lined the route to catch a passing glimpse of the chief executive, not that they could see through the heavily-tinted bullet-proof windows. George suspected presidential routes were routinely leaked to the media for publicity purposes. After all, a President without an adoring crowd isn’t very presidential.

  Benjamin wasn’t concerned about the people trying to get a look at the President, and he had no reason to think a terrorist group had any designs against him. After all, why would terrorists attack a President as indifferent to their actions as this one? His concern rode in an ambulance seven vehicles behind them.

  The possibility that the man responsible for killing God only knows how many women across this country could be this closely linked to the President of the United St
ates boggled George’s mind. How was it possible? And how were they going to get near enough to the man to investigate without arousing suspicion?

  Regardless how the day played out, George knew he was going to have to find a way to contact Morris and Keller so they could start a background investigation from their end. Finding the doctor’s name shouldn’t be a problem, after all, being the doctor of the President is a matter of public record. But was basing their suspicions simply on the fact that the doctor was black and owned two Lincoln Town cars reason enough to accuse him of being a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper?

  If I’m wrong, Morris is going to rip me a new one, he thought. I can hear it now, ‘Boy, now you’ve got your head up your ass!’

  Although the initial idea that the President’s doctor might be their suspect seemed viable, there were still inconsistencies in their theory. For one thing, Jake had mentioned that Doctor What’s-His-Name drove his in-town car to his office. Yet George knew the President’s Physician, as he was commonly called, maintained an office in the White House and was responsible for caring for the President, the first family, the Vice-President, members of the White House staff, and over a hundred-thousand annual visitors to the executive mansion. How did he possibly have time to run a private medical practice?

  He also knew the President’s doctor was usually a high ranking military officer, not a civilian. Had the President selected this man personally, or had he been chosen by an executive committee? Where was he from? What was his background? Was he a family friend? A thousand questions coursed through George’s mind; questions he didn’t have one clue of how he would answer them.

  George felt his cell phone in his pocket, even though he’d been warned against using it while in the motorcade due to the surveillance SUV at the back of the line of vehicles. He’d been compelled to give his number to Toolie in case he needed to contact him, but he’d been warned by Keller and Morris against using it for official purposes. He had the sinking suspicion he was going to have to break protocol and contact Washington with it even if it meant pissing off Morris.