Law of Five

by Robin Mahle

  ***

  The woman appeared apprehensive, drawing deep on the cigarette between her fingers. Marshall loomed over the petite, disproportionate exotic dancer. Her shimmery bikini top covered only a very small portion of her enhanced breasts. He wondered if she might topple over at any moment. This prospect was further heightened by the six-inch acrylic platformed stilettos on which she was balanced.

  Standing in the darkened hallway between the dressing rooms and the bathrooms, Marshall asked again, “Can you tell me if you believed Edward Shalot might harm you in any way?”

  The woman darted her eyes back and forth, seemingly in search of anyone that might be lurking and might overhear the conversation. She inhaled again on the cigarette, its glowing cherry end illuminating her face, further exposing her distress. “The guy paid me for a private dance. I gave it to him. He got a little too handsy and was tossed out on his ass by security.”

  “And then he returned after your shift,” Marshall pressed on.

  “I was walking to the bus stop. He came up behind me and asked if I’d be interested in going to a party with him. I guess he was into some group shit or something, I don’t know. I meet a lot of people with fetishes. Anyway, I told him I needed to get home. I got a five-year-old, you know, and I’m trying to give him a better life.”

  Marshall raised a hand. “I’m not here to pass judgment. I just want to know about Shalot.”

  She pursed her lips and continued. “He kept on, you know? Telling me how much I’d enjoy it and it would only be a couple hours. He said he’d pay me for my time. Well, that was when I lost my shit. I’m not a goddamn prostitute, you know? So I told him to fuck off.” She turned away for a moment, lowering the hand that held the burning cigarette. The side smoke still wafted into the air. “He flipped out. Grabbed me by my shoulders, threw me up against the wall of the building.” She now looked directly into Marshall’s eyes. “He put his hands around my neck and started squeezing. So, yeah, I thought he was gonna hurt me. I screamed. There were a couple of men, I don’t know, maybe fifty feet away. They heard me and came running. That’s when he let go.”

  “And you didn’t think to call the cops? Report the son of a bitch?”

  She rolled her eyes. “What were they gonna do? He didn’t hit me, I didn’t have any marks on me. He just took off when he saw the men coming.” The woman puffed a final time, then pressed the end against the metal trash can behind her. “Besides, Edward has always been a good client. He probably had too much to drink or something. Most men who come in here and think because I’m nice to them and I get them all turned on that I’m theirs, you know? They don’t seem to get that it’s the money I’m after. Some do. But most don’t.” The woman adjusted her top. “We done here? I gotta get back on stage in a minute.”

  “We’re done. Thank you for your time.”

  Detective Gibbons and Marshall walked out of the strip club and onto the sidewalk that was still dotted with several people hanging around; some on their phones, some talking with friends, clearly intoxicated. Little clouds of smoke, remnants of cigarettes and visible breath in the crisp night air, billowed out of their mouths as they shared stories between themselves.

  Marshall pushed his hands into his jacket and pulled it closed. “Why do I get the feeling that there’s much more to our friend Shalot than we originally thought?”

  Gibbons cast a sideways glance as they approached his car, which was wedged between two large SUVs. He pressed the remote to unlock the doors. “From what I gathered, the guy’s into some kinky shit. Maybe Lindsay Brown knew it and it freaked her out. We know he’s got a fondness for exerting his force, particularly against women.”

  They both stepped inside the black Chevy Impala SS, circa 1995, Gibbon’s pride and joy that he got hold of at a police auction last year.

  Marshall sank into the fully restored black leather upholstered bucket seat. “We need to know who was in his circle, including whoever Aguilar is talking to. I don’t know if Kate got anywhere with her classmates; I’ll find out soon enough. We’ve got all the evidence we need on the bastard, but something just isn’t sitting right with me, his fascination with Kate aside. Why would he so profusely declare his innocence to her? It’s as if he doesn’t want her to think badly of him.” Marshall turned to view the passersby on the sidewalk as Gibbons maneuvered out of the parking spot and back onto the main road.

  “And it doesn’t explain the connection to this goddamn Highway Hunter. Shalot’s a creature of habit. Hitting the strip clubs every week; school, work,” Gibbons began. “This guy isn’t a serial killer. He’s social – goes to college at night – not exactly what I would call your typical reclusive killer. He’s a dick, but I don’t think he’s part of this deal Scarborough’s handling.”

  “That’s probably what they said about Ted Bundy,” Marshall replied.

  ***

  Katie finally had a moment to take a look at the files Scarborough sent to her a few days ago, although she probably already knew everything in them. A great deal had changed in the last couple of days.

  She carried a glass of wine with her into the office and flipped on the light switch. The rest of the apartment had remained dimly lit and so the bright flash of the recessed canned lighting above caused her to squint briefly.

  Her eyes soon adjusted as she made her way to the desk and opened the lid of her laptop. The chair offered comfort and familiarity as she pivoted back and forth, waiting for the machine to finish loading, sipping on her glass of rosé. The hour had grown late and fatigue was setting in. However, she would not retreat to her bedroom until Marshall arrived home.

  In that moment, she began to recall the conversation Marshall had shared with her some time ago about his former fiancée, how she couldn’t accept the danger he would constantly face in his chosen line of work. It had occurred to Katie on more than one occasion that, although becoming increasingly accustomed to the hazards of the job, Marshall could in fact suffer harm as a result. The thought frightened her. But the allure of the job, finding the ones who caused harm to others, seeing them to justice – all that far outweighed the risks. Except on nights like these, when she hadn’t heard from him and he was later than expected.

  The email from Scarborough downloaded and Katie opened the files, immediately saving them to her hard drive. He’d sent her the profile Myers had compiled, along with geographic summaries and profiles of the victims. She wondered why, for a moment, that he would send her these details of an investigation that, at that point in time, had nothing really to do with her or the San Diego PD.

  Had her earlier call to him served as a reminder that he’d once offered her a position alongside him? Was this an attempt on his part to lure her in? Give her a chance to sink her teeth into something substantial? Not that the work she did was not. On the contrary. But nothing she had done in the past year could come close to the scale of this investigation. Inside, she felt a thrill, a rush of adrenaline that bolstered her confidence.

  Her first inclination was to review the profile Agent Myers had assembled. The level of detail was astonishing. She seemingly had left no stone unturned. Nick was right; the woman was extraordinarily talented. This was like nothing Katie had ever come across before.

  As she delved further into the text, she came across Myers’ interpretation of the carving in the victims’ torsos. The “V.”

  “An iconic symbol,” it began. “A symbol that reaches as far back as the 1600s, with a variety of meanings. Not simply as the victory sign or symbol for peace that we know today, but, in part, as a symbol of the ‘Law of Fives.’

  “The Law of Fives states that: All things happen in fives, or are divisible by or are multiples of five, or are somehow directly or indirectly appropriate to five. The Law of Fives is never wrong.

  —Malaclypse the Younger, Principia Discordia, Page 00016

  “This idea is the basis for Discordianism, a religion based on the worship of Eris, the Greek Goddess of Chaos. The
Principia Discoria is essentially their holy book or ‘bible.’”

  Katie was captivated by Myers’ theory.

  “The references to five and multiples of five are what’s key in this investigation. Although this religion worships chaos, it is also consistent with respect to heaven and hell, God and Satan. All things relating to five. Jesus and Satan have five letters, the holy number 23, 2+3, digits on human hands. The examples are infinite,” Myers went on to conclude.

  “However, the interpretation of the Law of Fives and Discordianism, in general, is integral to the religion in and of itself. Interpretation is left up to the individual.

  “In my research into the origins of the symbolism of ‘V,’ and as produced by Illuminati founder, Adam Weishaupt (incidentally, there were five original members of the Illuminati), who taught that human history came in five stages; (1) Chaos, (2) Discord, (3) Confusion, (4) Bureaucracy and (5) Aftermath. I believe we are dealing with an interpretation of this religion as Order from Chaos.

  “The person or persons we are looking for are believers and will interpret the meaning to suit their needs. I believe what they seek is to create chaos, the first of the five stages of the cycle of human history.”

  Katie heard the front door open and the sound proved startling as she nearly leapt from her seat. “Marshall?”

  “It’s me.” His voice carried down the hall and into the office.

  Relieved, she took to her feet, padding her way into the living room to greet him. “You’re home late.”

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve texted you.” Marshall leaned in to kiss her. “I’m surprised you’re still up.”

  She turned back towards the hall for a moment. “Oh, I got caught up looking at a few files that Nick sent over to me the other day. Can I get you a glass of wine?” She headed into the kitchen.

  “I don’t think so. It’s late and I’m exhausted.” Marshall removed his jacket and placed it over the dining chair. “How did class go? You talk to anyone who knows Shalot?”

  Katie returned, raising a bottle of water to her lips. “I talked to this guy named Will Mathers. He knows Edward, but not well. It seems he may not have had any close friends.” She moved to the couch, tucking one leg beneath her before taking a seat. “But, he did mention Shaun Hudson.” There was a spark of recognition in Marshall’s eyes. “Yeah, I thought you might find that interesting. Will had seen the two of them together a few times at a bar near campus. Said they seemed pretty chummy.”

  Marshall soon joined her on the sofa. “So you think Shaun Hudson was more involved with Shalot than simply accepting a payoff for your file?”

  “I think it’s worth talking to him to find out what he knows about Shalot.” She looked again to the light emanating from the office. “I gotta tell you, after what I just read in the files Agent Myers put together, I think they’ve got their hands full with this one.”

  Marshall nodded; a thin smile appeared as he seemed to be in agreement. “What did she say?”

  “Well, I only heard them talk about this dandelion they’ve found on the victims. Myers went on to explain the significance of that detail and it, in and of itself, suggested that more, maybe a lot more people were involved in these killings than they want to let on. In the profile I was reading, she goes on to say that the killer or killers are possibly connected to some religion or cult I’ve never heard of. Discordianism, or something like that. Myers concluded that the symbolism of the ‘V’ carving in the victims, for these people, anyway, means the Law of Five. It’s pretty fascinating stuff.” She took another sip of water. “Scary, actually.”

  “Well, there’s a hell of a lot more to Edward Shalot than we first thought. Gibbons and I talked to a few of the women that had been posting online about Shalot. The posts Aguilar found.”

  Katie nodded, knowing that Marshall still had a chip on his shoulder as far as Marc and that whole situation was concerned, but kept silent.

  “It seems Shalot roughed them up a little when they rejected his offers to go to his ‘parties.’ Or, at the very least, scared the hell out of them.”

  “Parties?”

  “Yeah. The kind that involve several people in a room, apparently without clothing.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle just a little at Marshall’s interpretation, although guilt immediately surfaced. After all, a woman was dead. “Sorry.” Her reddened face began to cool again.

  “Ah well, to each his own, I guess. I just want to punch Shalot in the face for being an asshole to those women. Son of a bitch deserves it for what he did.”

  14

  NICK HUNCHED OVER the top of the bar, shaking his empty glass at the bartender. He was sweating his ass off. It was coming up on mid-November and it was still too damn hot here. He couldn’t believe they didn’t have the air conditioning on in this place. Just doors propped open. Everyone said the breeze felt nice. Nice? Guess I should have packed shorts and a t-shirt. That seemed to be the attire of the other patrons.

  Instead, Nick wore a suit with a wool jacket, immediately shedding the coat as he entered the establishment. It was much more modern than he had expected. Not at all like the southwest décor he had envisioned. Phoenix was completely foreign to Nick. He’d never been there, never wanted to go there, but somehow, now found himself immersed in the death of yet another woman dumped on a God-forsaken deserted stretch of highway.

  He’d spent the better part of the day at the local field office, coordinating with other agents as well as the Sheriff’s department. The woman had been dumped outside the city limits and so it fell under County jurisdiction.

  Everyone was very helpful, as expected. He held great respect for all law officials and never felt that he was somehow superior because of his federal status. The deal was to catch the bad guys and that required cooperation from all law enforcement.

  “Hey, this seat taken?” Agent Myers approached and sat down to the left of him.

  “Nope. Have a seat. Thought you were already back at the hotel, tucked up in bed?” Nick pressed the button on his phone to see the time. “Shit. It’s only 9:00?”

  Agent Myers smiled, waving to the bartender. “Yep. Feels a lot later, though, I’ll give you that.”

  The bartender approached the two of them. “What can I get you?”

  “Bourbon—neat,” Myers replied.

  “Whoa.” Nick felt himself waver a little too much, figuring he ought to slow down on the drink. But one more wouldn’t hurt. It had been almost nine weeks since his last drink. A personal best. He guessed he’d have to get back on the wagon tomorrow. Then again... “I’m impressed.” He said to Myers. “I’ll have a Jack and Coke.”

  The bartender acknowledged the order and moved onto the next patron, the numbers of which seemed to be dwindling.

  “It’s not like back east, is it?” Nick cast a glance around the bar. “I mean, look at these people? It’s friggin November and they’re all in shorts.” He looked back to Myers. “There’s something seriously wrong with that.”

  Myers tossed her head back, laughing. It seemed she had picked up on the fact that Nick might have had one drink too many already. His speech was slurring. “Remember, we need to be at the County Examiner’s office at eight tomorrow. You might want to reel it in a bit.”

  “Pshaw! I’m fine!” He creased his brow, realizing he had just said “pshaw.” This was probably going to be his last drink of the night.

  The problem was, Nick had been traveling so much over the past several days that he hardly remembered what time it was, how long he’d been awake, or sometimes which victim he was seeing. They were all beginning to fuse into one. Varied eye colors, different hair, all of it matted. Body shapes from thin to overweight. It was a sea of bodies, amalgamating into one great Frankenstein-esque being. He squeezed his eyes tight to clear his mind. But since that wasn’t working, fortunately, the bartender had just set a drink down in front of him.

  “Here’s to your theory of Chaos. I sure as hell can
’t make any sense out of it.” Nick held up his glass, waiting for Myers to toast with him.

  “To Chaos.” She clinked her glass against his and tossed back the bourbon with ease.

  “You’ve done that before.” Nick smiled.

  “Maybe. Just once or twice.” Agent Myers placed her hand on his forearm, casting her eyes on him and brandishing a sensual smile.

  Nick might have had a little too much booze, but he knew when a woman wanted him. He never had any trouble in that area, although once they found out he had never been married, nor had any kids at his age, they figured something must have been wrong with him. They would sleep with him anyway, which was fine by him. And he figured that Agent Myers wanted to sleep with him now, a possibility that had crossed his mind prior to this moment.

  “Georgia.” Nick looked to her, anticipation surging through his body. “That’s a really beautiful name.” It wasn’t a cheap line. He wasn’t a cheap man. Nick let his eyes fall, taking in the beauty of her red silky hair, which rested perfectly over her shoulders in soft, billowy curls. During the course of business, she wore her hair in a tight bun, making her features appear hard. Now, her cheeks disappeared behind the waves of hair, highlighting her green eyes. Or maybe they were blue.

  “I was named after the peach. You know, Georgia peach? My dad said I reminded him of a peach when I was born. Soft, pale, and fuzzy.” She laughed again.

  He liked her laugh. In fact, tonight might have been the first time he’d actually heard it. She’d been assigned to work with him on this case when the first victim was discovered in Virginia. Nick recalled his boss summoning him into his office after local authorities discovered the body of a woman, thirty-three, single, with one kid. It was as if the killer was making a trial run. Seeing if he could do it. The acts had become more brazen, the locations planned carefully, and seemed to be occurring with a frequency that scared the hell out of him.