Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

by Patterson, James

  Then there was the Monica Seles stabbing in Hamburg, Germany Katarina Witt had nearly suffered the same fate at the hand of a “fan.”

  Sylvester Stallone, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Jodie Foster had all been seriously stalked and attacked by people who claimed to adore them.

  But who were Jack and Jill? Why had they chosen Washington, D.C., for the murders? Had someone in the government harmed one or both of them in some real or imagined way?

  What was the link between Senator Daniel Fitzpatrick and the murdered television newswoman Natalie Sheehan? What could Fitzpatrick and Sheehan possibly have in common? They were liberals -- could that be something? Or were the killings radom, and therefore nearly impossible to chart? Random was a nasty word that was sticking in my head more and more as I thought about the case. Random was a very bad word in homicide circles. Random murders were almost impossible to solve.

  Most celebrity stalkers didn't murder their prey- at least, they didn't use extreme violence right away. That bothered the hell out of me about Jack and Jill. How long had they been obsessed with Senator Fitzpatrick and Natalie Sheehan? How had they ultimately chosen their victims? Don't let these be random selections and murders. Anything but that.

  I was also intrigued by the fact that there were two of them, working closely together.

  I had just come off a dizzying, high-profile case in which two friends, two males, had been kidnapping and murdering women for more than thirteen years. They had been cooperating, but also competing with each other. The psychological principle involved was known as twinning.

  So what about Jack and Jill? Were theyfreak-friends? Were they romantically involved? Or was their bond something else? Was it a sexual thing for them? That seemed like a reasonable possibility.

  Power dominance? A really kinky parlor game, maybe the ultimate sex fantasy? Were they a husband-and-wife team? Or maybe spree killers like Bonnie and Clyde?

  Was this the beginning of a gruesome crime spree? A multiple-murder spree in Washington ?

  Would it spread elsewhere? To other large cities where celebrities tend to cluster? New York? Los Angeles? Paris? London?

  I stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor of the Jefferson Hotel and looked into a corridor of dazed and confused faces.

  Judging from the looks at the crime scene, I was pretty much up to speed.

  Jack and Jill came to The Hill To kill, to kill, to kill.

  “THE GOOD DOCTOR CROSS, the master of disaster. Well, I'll be. Alex -- hey, Alex -- over here!”

  I was lost in a bad jumble of thoughts and impressions about the murders when I heard my name. I recognized the voice immediately, and it brought a smile to my lips.

  I turned and saw Kyle Craig of the FBI. Another dragonslayer, this one originally from Lexington, Massachusetts. Kyle was not your typical FBI agent. He was a totally straight shooter. He wasn't uptight, and he usually wasn't bureaucratic. Kyle and I had worked together on some very bad cases in the past. He was a specialist in high-profile crimes that were marked by extreme violence or multiple murders. Kyle was an expert in the nasty, scary stuff most Bureau agents didn't want to be involved with on a regular basis. Beyond that, he was a friend.

  “They've got all the big guns out on this one,” Kyle said as we shook hands in the foyer. He was tall, still gaunt. Distinctive features and strikingly black hair, coal black hair. He had a long hawk's nose that looked sharp enough to cut.

  “Who's here so far, Kyle?” I asked him. He would have everything scoped out by now. He was smart and observant, and his instincts were usually good. Kyle also knew who everybody was and how they fit into the larger picture.

  Kyle puckered up. He made a face as if he had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. "Who the hell isn't here, Alex? Detectives from D.C., your own cornpadres. The Bureau, of course.

  DEA, believe it or not. The blue suit is CIA. You can tell by the clipped wings. Your close friend Chief Pittman is in visiting with Ms. Sheehan's lovely corpse. They're in the boudoir as we speak."

  “Now that's scary,” I said and smiled thinly. “About as grotesque as you can get.”

  Kyle pointed to a closed door, which I assumed was the bedroom.

  “I don't think they want to be disturbed. A rumor circulating at Quantico has it that Chief of Detectives Pittman is a necrophiliac,” he said with a deadpan look. “Could that be true?”

  “Victimless crimes,” I said.

  “How about a little respect for the dead,” Kyle said, peering down his nose at me. “Even in death, I'm certain Ms. Sheehan would find a way to rebuff your chief of detectives.”

  I wasn't surprised that The Jefe himself had come to the Jefferson. This was developing into the biggest D.C. homicide case in years. It definitely would be if Jack and Jill struck again soon -- as they had promised.

  Reluctantly, I parted company with Kyle and walked toward the closed bedroom door. I opened it slowly, as if it might be booby-trapped.

  The one and only Chief George Pittman was in the bedroom with a man in a gray suit. Probably a forensics guy. They both glanced around at me. Pittman was chomping on an unlit Bauza cigar. Pittman frowned and shook his head when he saw who it was. Nothing he could do about it. It was Commissioner Clouser's invitation-order that I be on the case. It was obvious that The Jefe didn't want me here.

  He muttered “the late Alex Cross” to the other suit. So much for polite introductions and light banter.

  The two of them turned back to the famous corpse on the bed.

  Chief Pittman had been abusive for no apparent reason. I didn't let it bother me too much. It was business-pretty-much-as-usual with the rude, bullying prick. What a useless bastard, a real horseass. All he ever did was get in the way.

  I breathed in slowly a couple of times. Got into the job, the homicide scene. I walked over to the bed and started my routine: the collection of raw impressions.

  A G-string was pulled partly over Natalie Sheehan's head, and the waistband was wrapped around her throat. Panties covered her nose, chin, and mouth. Her wide blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She was still wearing black stockings and a blue bra that matched the panties.

  Here was evidence of kinkiness again, and yet I didn't quite believe it. Everything was too orderly and arranged. Why would they want us to suspect kinky sex might be involved? Was that something? Were Jack and Jill frustrated lovers? Was Jack impotent?

  We needed to know whether anyone had sex with the victim.

  It was a particularly disturbing death scene. Natalie Sheehan had been dead for about eight hours, according to Kyle's information.

  She was no longer beautiful, though, not even close. Ironically, she had taken her biggest news story with her to the grave.

  She knew Jack -- and maybe Jill.

  I could remember watching her on TV, and it was almost as if someone I knew personally had been murdered. Maybe that's why there's such fascination with celebrity murder cases. We see people like Natalie Sheehan on almost a daily basis; we come to think that we know them. And we believe they lead such interesting lives. Even their deaths are interesting.

  I could already see that there were some obvious and striking similarities to the murder of Senator Fitzpatrick. The element of kinky sadism for one thing. Natalie Sheehan was manacled to the bedposts with handcuffs. She was seminude. She also seemed to have been “executed,” just as the senator had been.

  The news celebrity had received one close-range gunshot to the left side of her head, which hung to one side as if her long neck had been broken. Maybe it had been.

  Was this the Jack and Jill pattern? Organized, efficient, and cold-blooded as hell. Kinky for some reason known only to them.

  Pseudokinky ? Sexual obsession, or a sign of impotence? What was the pattern telling us? What was it communicating?

  I was beginning to formulate a psychological personality print for the killers. The method and style of the killings were more important to me than any physical evid
ence. Always. Both murders had been carefully planned -- methodical, very structured, and leisurely --Jack and Jill were playing a cold-blooded game.

  So far, there had been no significant slipups that I knew of. The only physical evidence left at the scenes was intentional -- the notes.

  Sexual fantasy was obvious -- both in exhibiting the female on her bed and in the senator's case, male mutilation. Did Jack and Jill have trouble with sex?

  My initial impression was that both killers were white, somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty-five- probably closer to the latter, based on the high level of organization in both murders. I suspected well above average intelligence, but also persuasiveness and physical attractiveness. That was particularly telling, and bizarre to me -- since the killers had managed to get inside the celebrities' apartments. It was the best clue we had.

  There was much more for me to take in, and I did, madly scribbling away in my notepad. Occasionally, TheJefe looked my way and glared at me. Checking up on me.

  I wanted to go at him. He represented so many things that were wrong with the department, the Washington PD. He was such a controlling macho asshole, and not half as bright as he thought he was.

  “Anything, Cross?” he finally turned and asked in his usual clipped manner.

  “Not so far,” I said.

  That wasn't the truth. What definitely occurred to me was that Daniel Fitzpatrick and Natalie Sheehan might both have been “promiscuous,” in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Maybe Jack and Jill “disapproved” of them. Both bodies had been left exposed, in compromising and very embarrassing positions. The killers seemed preoccupied with sex -- or at least the sex lives of famous people.

  Exposed... or to expose I wondered. Exposed for what reason?

  “I'd like to look at the note,” I told Pittman, trying to be civil and professional.

  Pittman waved a hand in the direction of an end table on the far side of the bed! His gesture was dismissive and rude. I wouldn't treat the rawest rookie patrolman that way. I had shown more respect to Chop-It-Off-Chucky.

  I walked over and read the note for myself. It was another poem.

  Five lines.

  Jack and Jill came to The Hill To right another error.

  To make it short Her news report Was filled with her own terror.

  I shook my head back and forth a few times, but didn't say anything about the note to Pittman. To hell with him. The rhyme didn't tell me much of anything yet. I hoped it would eventually. Actually, the rhymes were clever, but without emotion. What had made these two killers so clever and cold?

  I continued to search the bedroom. I was infamous in homicide circles for spending a lot of time at crime scenes. Sometimes I'd spend a whole day. I planned to do the same thing here. Most of the dead woman's effects seemed to tie in with her career, almost as if she had no other life. Videocassettes, expense sheets from her network, a pilfered stapler with CBS engraved on it. I observed the murder scene, and the dead woman, from several angles. I wondered if the killers had taken anything with them.

  I couldn't concentrate the way I wanted to, though. Chief Pittman had gotten on my nerves. I had let him get to me.

  Why had both victims been left exposed? What was it that connected them in death- at least in the minds of the murderers?

  The killers felt compelled to graphically point out certain things to us. In fact, everything about Fitzpatrick and Sheehan was in public view now. Thanks to Jack and Jill.

  This is so bad, I thought and had to reach down deep for a breath.

  Worst of all, I was completely hooked on the case. I was definitely hooked.

  Then everything took a turn for the worse in the bedroom. A bad and unexpected turn.

  I was standing near George Pittman when he spoke again, without looking at me. “You come back after we're finished, Cross. Come back later.”

  The Jefe's words hung like stale smoke in the air. I had trouble believing that he'd actually said them. I have always tried to act with some respect toward Pittman. It's been hard, nearly impossible most of the time, but I've done it anyway.

  “I'm talking to you, Cross,” Pittman raised his voice a notch.

  “You hear what I said? Do you hear me?”

  Then the chief of detectives did something he shouldn't have, something so bad, something I couldn't look past. He reached out and pushed me with the heel of his hand. Pushed me hard.

  I stumbled back a half-step. Caught my balance. Both my fists slowly rose to my chest.

  I didn't stop to think. Maybe some stored-up venom and powerful dislike made me act. That was part of it.

  I reached out and grabbed Pittman with both hands. This unspoken thing between us, the pattern of disrespect from him, had been building for a couple of years -- at least that long. Now it flared big-time and ugly. It exploded inside the dead woman's bedroom.

  George Pittman and i are about the same age. He's not as tall as I am, but he's probably heavier by thirty pounds. He has the squat, blocklike build and look of a football linebacker from the early sixties. He's bad at his job and he shouldn't have it. He resents the hell out of me because I'm decent at what I do. Fucker!

  I grabbed and picked him up, right off the floor. I look fairly strong, but I'm actually a lot stronger. Pittman's eyes widened in disbelief and sudden fear.

  I slammed him hard against the bedroom wall. Then banged him into the wall a second time. Nothing lethal or too damaging, but definitely a bell-ringer, an attention-grabber.

  Each time his body hit, the staid Jefferson Hotel seemed to shake to its very foundation. TheJefe's body went slack. He didn't fight back. He couldn't believe what I'd just done. To be honest, neither could I.

  I loosened my grip on Pittman. I finally let him go, and he wobbled on his feet. I knew I hadn't hurt him much physically, but I had hurt his pride. I had also made a big mistake.

  I didn't say a word. Neither did the other gray suit in the room.

  I took some solace in the fact that Pittman had pushed first. He had started this, and for no reason. I wondered if the other suit had seen it that way, but I doubted it.

  I left the crime-scene bedroom. Pittman never spoke to me.

  I wondered also if I had just left the Washington Police Department.

  “THIS IS AN ALERT! Something is going down at Crown. Up and at 'em, everybody! We've got trouble at Crown. This is a real alert! This is not a drill! This is for real.”

  Half a dozen Secret Service agents took the sudden alert very seriously. They watched Jack through Range master binoculars, three sets of them.

  Jack was on the move.

  They couldn't believe what they were witnessing. Not one of the agents could believe this very bad scene playing out before them. The alert was definitely for real, though.

  “It's Jack, all right. What is he -- crazy?”

  “We have full visual contact with Jack. Where the hell is he going? Goddamn him. What's going on?”

  The six watchers comprised three highly professional teams.

  They were all first-teamers, among the best and brightest of more than two thousand Secret Service agents working around the world. They sat inside dark-colored Ford sedans parked on Fifteenth Street Northwest. This was getting very serious, and very scary, in a hurry.

  This is a real alert.

  This is not a drill.

  "Jack is definitely leaving Crown now. It's twenty-three forty.

  At this moment, we have Jack in our crosshairs," one of the agents spoke into the car mike.

  “Yeah. Jack can be a real tricky fellow, though. He's proven it before. Keep him right in your sights. Where's the lovely Jill, home base?”

  “This is home base,” a female agent's voice came onto the line immediately

  “Jill is nice and comfy up on the third floor of Crown. She's reading Barbara Bush on Barbara Bush. She's in her jammies. Not to worry about Jill.”

  “We're absolutely sure about that?”

 
; “Home base is sure about Jill. Jill's in bed. Jill is being a good girl, for tonight anyway”

  “Good for Jill. How the hell did Jack get out?”

  “He used that old tunnel between the basement of Crown and the Treasury Building. That's how he got out!”

  This is an alert.

  This is not a drill.

  Jack is on the move.

  "Jack is approaching Pennsylvania Avenue now. He's near the Willard Hotel. He just glanced back over his shoulder. Jack's paranoid, as well he should be. I don't think he saw us. Oh, shit, somebody just flashed their high beams in front of the Willard.

  A vehicle is pulling out -- and pulling up alongside Jack! RedJeep!

  Jack is getting inside the fucking redJeep."

  “Roger. So much for having Jack in our damn crosshairs. We'll follow him pronto. Virginia plates on the Jeep. License number two-three-one HCY. Koons dealer sticker. Start a te -- crazy?”

  “We have full visual contact with Jack. Where the hell is he going? Goddamn him. What's going on?”

  The six watchers comprised three highly professional teams.

  They were all first-teamers, among the best and brightest of more than two thousand Secret Service agents working around the world. They sat inside dark-colored Ford sedans parked on Fifteenth Street Northwest. This was getting very serious, and very scary, in a hurry.

  This is a real alert.

  This is not a drill.

  "Jack is definitely leaving Crown now. It's twenty-three forty.

  At this moment, we have Jack in our crosshairs," one of the agents spoke into the car mike.

  “Yeah. Jack can be a real tricky fellow, though. He's proven it before. Keep him right in your sights. Where's the lovely Jill, home base?”

  “This is home base,” a female agent's voice came onto the line immediately

  “Jill is nice and comfy up on the third floor of Crown. She's reading Barbara Bush on Barbara Bush. She's in her jammies. Not to worry about Jill.”

  “We're absolutely sure about that?”

  “Home base is sure about Jill. Jill's in bed. Jill is being a good girl, for tonight anyway”