by Wayne Batson
“You’re sure?”
“Young man, I refuse to speak unless I’m sure. This is a steel-chromium-nickel alloy—surgical steel. Look here.” He held the photo and gestured from the blade to the handle. “Notice there’s no corrosion on the blade. None at all. The handle and casing, however, all show signs of many years of use.”
I nodded affirmation and then offered, “Some have claimed that this is the type of blade Jack the Ripper used.”
Shepherd laughed and cleared his throat. “Jack the Ripper, mmhm. The Rumbelow blade, eh? No, this blade is quite different. Of course, no one really knows what weapon the Whitechapel killer used. Is that what this is…a murder weapon?”
I ignored the question. “How is this one different from the Rumbelow knife?”
“It’s longer for one thing.” He went back to the mustache. “In fact, that’s the most curious aspect of this instrument. It’s so long. We have sales reps roll through here all the time. They buy us lunch or pastries and show us their new state-of-the-art equipment. I’ve seen any number of strange implements. Long, short, curved, backward—you name it. But few bladed instruments this long. I can see why some might compare it to the Ripper weapon. It’s quite old. Turn-of-the-century, maybe.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The casing for one thing,” he said, tracing his finger along a seam in the metal. “It’s not very streamlined, is it? The housing would be completely sealed on anything made in the last forty years. But I think this is older than that. Notice the brass knob? That’s old school. Very old school.”
“What’s it for, the knob?”
“You ever use an X-ACTO knife?” I nodded, and he went on. “It’s like that. Turn the knob and the blade slides back into the housing.”
“Would a surgeon need that feature?”
He smacked his lips and shook his head. “Not likely. Not these days. We don’t need to adjust the length of the blade. We just ask for a different blade. I’m rather wondering if this instrument might be something other than surgical in nature.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not certain.” He gave the mustache a few more twirls. “And so…”
“You won’t say till you’re certain.”
“Right.” He raised an eyebrow wryly. “I might know someone who could tell me. Can I keep this photo for a few days?”
I sighed inwardly. “If it will help.”
“I can’t promise you much,” Shepherd said. “But I’ll look into it and get back to you with whatever I learn. What’s your cell number?”
“I’m staying at the Destin Motel 6.”
“They leave the light on for you?”
Funny doctor. “I’m in room seven. Just leave a message at the desk.”
“For?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feigning embarrassment. I hesitated a moment. I’d rented the room under one name and given an alias as well. Better to stick to basics. “John Spector,” I said, standing.
He stood and offered his hand.
We shook and he said, “You never explained what kind of crime this was related to. Murder, I presume?”
“The victims were all young women,” I replied. “The killer used the blade in the photo to cut their throats.”
“It would certainly work for that.” He had what looked like an involuntary shiver. Then, he frowned.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, any surgical blade would do for cutting a throat,” he said. “One this size would be harder to manipulate, a bit more ungainly. Makes me wonder. With all the sharp blades out there, why this one?”
I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “Thank you, Doc,” I said. “That feels like a very important question.”
He nodded but looked uncomfortable. “You’d think that being a surgeon, I might not be bothered by something like that. But I am.” He removed his wire glasses, and his eyes looked even more owlish, owlish and sad. “You look like you’ve been at your job for a long time,” he said. “Not that you look old, Officer Spector. Just seasoned. What I mean is, after all you’ve seen, does it…does it still bother you?”
“Yes,” I said. “It bothers me very much.”
Chapter 9
The hotel manager, Mr. Granderson, was so startled by Deanna Rezvani that he stepped backward into the old room key cubbies.
“FBI?” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He rubbed the back of his head, then removed his glasses and wiped sweat that instantly beaded on his forehead. “I…I don’t understand. Has something happened? Big Dave’s not going to like this.”
“Big Dave?” Rez echoed, slipping her ID back into her suit pocket.
“He’s regional manager. If something goes wrong here, it’s my head.”
“Mr. Granderson, please, relax. Nothing has happened in your hotel, but there might be someone with information pertaining to a crime renting a room here. Do you have a renter named Regis Willoughby?”
Granderson flew to the computer keyboard and clacked way. “I know I’ve heard that name. Not a name to forget. Kinda stupid-sounding, y’know?” He pressed a few keys and shook his head. “Wait, now that doesn’t make sense. There’s no record of anyone by that name. I thought sure I’d—wait. The guy in the business center.”
“Go on.”
He wiped more sweat from his glistening forehead. “There was a guy hogging a computer in the business center. He said his name was Regis Willoughby. Big guy, kind of creepy.”
“But he’s not on the registry?”
“No, not in the computer, but I remember now. I checked the guy in.” He let out a breath full of despair. “This is awful. What is he anyway, a drug dealer? Aww, this will never work. I rented a room to a drug dealer wanted by the FBI.”
Dee took a deep breath herself. To avoid smacking him.
“He’s wanted for questioning,” she said. “That’s all, Mr. Granderson, but if he is still in the motel, would you please tell me what room?”
“Oh, right.” Granderson went back to the computer. “He said he was in room seven. Here it is, John Spector. Paid in cash day before yesterday. He’s booked through tonight. Come to think of it, I was supposed to send him some meal vouchers, y’know to smooth over that I booted him from the computers.”
“I’m going to need a room key,” Rez said, holding out her hand.
The manager opened a drawer, fished out a magnetic stripe card, and plunged it into the encoder next to the computer monitor. He handed her the card key. And then froze. He’d seen a flash of the gun under Rez’s sports coat. “You’re not going to shoot anyone…are you?”
Man, this guy is wound tight, she thought. She reached across the front desk and put her hand on the man’s shoulder. “No, of course I’m not going to shoot anyone. Just questions, that’s all. I promise.”
“Good,” he replied, nodding like a bobble-head doll. “Good, good. That is such a relief.” He looked up at the clock. “Come on nine o’clock. Daddy needs a mimosa.”
Rez turned to leave but couldn’t resist. “If I do need to shoot someone,” she said, “I’ll be sure to do it outside.”
Mr. Granderson turned sheet white.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
John Spector, Rez thought. Better than Regis Willoughby. She passed the motel’s business center. There was an old guy in there playing solitaire on one computer and a very bored-looking little blonde girl.
Rez came to room seven and rapped on the door. “Regis Willoughby?” she called. She waited and got no response. “Mr. Willoughby, please come to your door. I’m Agent Rezvani from the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” She knocked again.
No answer. No frantic rustling from the other side. Rez glanced up the hall toward the front desk and back the other way. Then she pulled the Sig Sauer out from beneath her coat and put the key card in the door. The tiny green light said the door was unlocked. Rez held her gun vertically a few inches from her chest and slowly opened the door. Cold air
leaked out, giving Rez an instant chill.
The room was dark except for an incision of light between the curtains. She eased the door shut behind her. It clicked. Rez stood very still, just listening. No sound at all. Not even the room’s A/C unit.
A big guy? she thought. Not too many places for a big guy to hide in a small hotel room. She tried the bathroom first. The shower curtain was drawn. Rez’s heart rate climbed a notch. Still, the curtain was semitransparent, and the shower lining was some light color, cream or off white. Someone standing in there would be easily visible…even in the shadows. She looked behind the curtain anyway. No one there.
Light flickered in the bathroom mirror. Thunder thumped the motel, rattling the windowpanes and vibrating the walls.
Rez swallowed, and thought, Holy smokes, that sounded like a bomb! She waited for her heart to slow and then stepped out of the bathroom. She took in the rest of the room: mini-fridge, microwave, entertainment center with a dresser beneath, vacant flat screen TV, two double beds, an easy chair, a tall lamp, and a long desk by the window. But she couldn’t see around the near corner. Someone could hide there.
Gun raised, she spun around the corner and found no one. That left the curtains guarding the window, but there was no figure-sized hump. She holstered her weapon and threw open the curtains. Gray light bathed the room. Rain splotched the glass. Thunder rumbled. Rez didn’t care much for storms. She looked away from the glass just as lightning flashed.
The room looked empty. The bed was made. There was no luggage. All the trashcans were empty. All the towels were hung neatly or stacked. None of the plastic cups had been set free of their cellophane wrap. Either the housekeepers were amazing, or Willoughby skipped town. She sighed and wandered over to the dressers. No clothes in the drawers. Just a Gideon Bible. It looked well used…doubtless the accumulation of wear from hundreds of occupants, if not thousands.
She went to the desk next. There was a hotel directory and a Destin area phone book. She opened the thin drawer beneath the desktop and found a few Motel 6 pens and a stationary pad. She removed the paper and held it up to the light from the window. There were definite imprints there, from someone with a heavy hand.
“Haven’t done this since high school,” Rez muttered, taking one of the pens and shading lightly over the page. “Still works though.” When she was finished, there remained a grainy blue cloud on the notepad. But the ink didn’t fill the shallow crevices of writing. PCB Hospital had been written there, as well as a phone number.
“Panama City Beach Hospital,” she said. “Probably not the guy I’m looking for. Still…” She tucked the notepad into her coat pocket.
Thunder cracked so loud that she involuntarily ducked. She felt sudden cold wash over her and shivered. The A/C unit had not come on.
She felt a weight on her back and shoulders as if someone was watching from the window. As she spun on her heel, her hand flew to the holster beneath her jacket, but there was no one in sight. The rain continued to splatter the glass. Rez sighed and left her Sig Sauer alone. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling.
She stared at the glass and, among the spatters of raindrops, found the beginnings of a shape. Irregular rivulets of rainwater seemed to be organizing, spilling into each other, forming something. Staring intently Rez recognized the trickling outline of a slight female figure. “What the…?” she mouthed. It had to be some trick of the glass and rainwater. But there it was: the outline of a flowing dress, long arms, slender fingers…a soft, slightly open mouth and horribly vacant eyes.
Lightning flashed. Thunder shook the building. Rez jumped.
“What are you doing in my room?” came a deep male voice from behind. Rez jumped again and turned in a blink.
In the doorway stood a very tall man with door-spanning broad shoulders. His skin was pale, and wisps of blond hair were pasted by rain across his forehead. He held the door with one hand and held a silver suitcase in the other. Rez glanced back at the window. Lots of rain splotches, but no discernible pattern, no spectral figure.
“I’m Special Agent Deanna Rezvani of the FBI,” she said, struggling to lace her voice with authority. “Are you Regis Willoughby?”
He nodded.
“Or are you John Spector?” she asked.
He didn’t blink, but faint lines appeared around the corners of his eyes, and he smiled grimly. “I’m both.”
Rez’s mind raced. Was he admitting his alias because he was certain he had the upper hand? Was this his trap all along? Her hand slid away from her side to the small of her back and the Glock 27 hidden there. “Mr. Spector, why are you using an alias?”
“Can I see some ID?” he asked.
Dee frowned. She had to use her gun hand to get to her badge. She held it up, wide open, so he could see the big blue letters, FBI.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” said Spector. “I just have a thing for picture ID’s and shiny badges.”
Rez put away the ID. Some unguarded part of her registered the humor, but not for long. Danger alarms blared from every other corner of her mind. “Mr. Spector, I’m asking again, why are you using an alias?”
“Ghost,” he said.
“What?”
“People call me Ghost.”
The tension in Rez’s neck threatened to spark a migraine. Rez couldn’t let that happen. Not now. It might be fatal. She flexed her trapezius muscles and let them relax. She took a deep, very measured breath. “Mr. Spector…Regis Willoughby…Ghost? Why the aliases?”
“Bad habit,” he replied.
He hadn’t moved yet, not an inch. He filled the doorway and looked as if nothing short of a bulldozer would get him out of the way. Or maybe a bullet. She let her hand drift back to her Glock.
“Are you arresting me?” he asked.
“No. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.” He still didn’t move. Rez stared at the silver suitcase. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie, like maybe it was full of chemicals, an advanced sniper rifle, or a bomb. Involuntarily she took a step backward toward the window. She felt like the walls were closing in, making the room into a narrow hall with a potential killer blocking her only escape.
“I thought the FBI wasn’t interested in the case,” Ghost said. “A hoax.”
“Not everyone at the FBI feels that way.”
Ghost nodded. “Agent LePoast indicated years of searching turned up so little that the case was dropped.”
“Again, not everyone dropped the case.” Rez grew impatient. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Shoot,” he said with a momentary glance at her right arm. “With questions, I mean.”
Rez hesitated. So, he knew the gun was there. Good, she thought. Let him know that I’m armed. “Outside,” she said. She wanted to question him but not on his terms or in his room.
“Whatever you want,” he said, backing up. He held the door for her. “Lobby?”
Rez said, “Fine.”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The manager, Mr. Granderson, fidgeted behind the desk, his eyes darting thirty times a minute toward the FBI agent and the suspect sitting in his lobby. A group of tourists stood a few paces back from the sliding glass doors. They were much more intent on the rain blowing in sheets than the pair sitting in the burgundy arm chairs near the window.
“Interesting line of storms,” Ghost said. “Big one blew through yesterday. But this one’s pretty potent too.”
Rez nodded but said, “That’s an interesting suitcase.”
“You aren’t much for small talk, are you, Agent Rezvani?”
“The suitcase?”
“My equipment.”
“What do you do for a living?” she asked.
“I find people,” he replied. “People who are hard to find or hard to get to.”
“So, you’re like a private detective.”
“You might say that,” he replied.
“Tell me about the photos.”
“I
was out at the beach, Grayton Beach, like I said in the email. I found the camera floating in the Gulf, just offshore.”
“May I see it?”
Ghost picked up his case, moved his hands strangely, rippling his fingers in certain places. He had the case open, the camera out, and the case closed in a flash. Rez hadn’t seen a thing except for the gleam of silver.
He held the burgundy camera out to her. She took it by the corner. “I’d like to dust it for fingerprints,” she said. “Would that be all right?”
“You’ll get mine,” he said, looking sideways at the camera, “and now a few of yours…but not much else.”
“How do you know that?”
“The camera was floating in the Gulf,” he said. “The camera’s got a polymer case, not metal. In hot saltwater, prints wouldn’t last for long.”
Rez blinked. The man knew his stuff. She placed the camera in a plastic evidence bag and dropped it into her purse.
“Mr. Spector,” she said finally, “did you post the pictures from this camera anywhere else?”
“Just the Feebs,” he said. “Sorry. FBI, I mean.”
“No blog posts or websites?”
Spector shook his head slightly. No.
“Did you send the photos to anyone else? Even to another law enforcement agency?”
“No,” he said. “You do realize you now qualify as insane?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What?”
“Doing the same thing, the same way, and expecting a different result? That’s one definition of insanity. You keep asking me the same question.”
“But not exactly the same way,” she countered.
“Okay,” Spector said, the smile flattening into a grim frown. “But I am telling you, I did not send the photos ANYWHERE else. Just the FBI. And that was with pretty stiff encryption, so I don’t think anyone hacked me. Why are you asking?”
“The photos are all over the web now,” Rezvani explained. “One day after you sent them to us, they wind up on every serial killer hobbyist site, blog, Pinterest, you name it. Just like before.”