This was not a good thing. This was very bad, in fact. The killer immediately began to panic, to experience the outer edges of fear.
He wondered if the Metro police were coming for him right now.
Did they know who he was?
He wanted to run -- but there was no way out of here now.
He had to sit this one out, to gut it out.
The killer's initial reaction was to feel shame. He thought he was going to be sick. Throw up or something. He wanted to put his head between his legs. He felt like such a chump to get caught like this.
He was seated about twenty yards from where that stuffed shirt Colonel Wilson and the detective were standing around as if something incredibly fucking important were about to happen.
Every passing cadet saluted the adults, like the robotic morons that they were. A buzz of apprehension began to fill the room.
Was something earth-shattering going to happen? The thought screaming inside the killer's head. Were the police about to arrest him in front of the entire school? Had he been caught?
How could they have traced anything to him, though? It didn't make sense. That thought calmed him somewhat.
A false calm? A false sense of security? he wondered and lowered himself slightly in the stiff wooden seat, wishing that somehow he could disappear.
Then he sat straight up in his seat again. Oh, shit. Here we go!
He watched closely as the homicide detective slowly walked toward the podium with Colonel Wilson. His heartbeat was like the rhythm section in a White Zombie song.
The assembly began with the usual, dumb cadet resolutions, “honesty, integrity in thought and deed,” all that crap. Then Colonel Wilson began to talk about the “cowardly murders of two children in Garfield Park.” Wilson went on: “The Metro police are canvassing the park and surrounding environs. Maybe a cadet at Theodore Roosevelt has unwittingly seen something that might help the police with their investigation. Maybe one of you can help the police in some way.”
So that was why the imposing homicide detective was here. A goddamn fishing expedition. The ongoing frigging investigation of the two murders.
The killer was still holding his breath, though. His eyes were very large and riveted to the stage as Sampson went over to the podium mike. The tall black man really stood out in the room of nothing but uniforms and short haircuts and mostly pink faces.
He was huge. He was also kind of cool-looking in his black leather car coat, gray shirt, black necktie. He towered over the podium, which had seemed just the right height for Colonel Wilson.
“I served in Vietnam, under a couple of lieutenantswho looked about your age,” the detective said into the mike. His voice was calm and very deep. He laughed then, and so did most of the cadets.
He had a lot of presence, a whole world of presence. He definitely seemed like the real deal. The killer thought that Sampson was laughing down at the cadets, but he couldn't be sure.
“The reason I'm here at your school this morning,” the detective went on, “is that we're canvassing Garfield Park and everything that it touches. Two little kids were savagely killed there, both within the past week. The skulls of the children were crushed. The killer is a fiend, in no uncertain terms.”
The killer wanted to give Sampson the finger. The killer isn't a fiend. You're the fiend, mojoman. The killer is a lot cooler than you think.
"As I understand it from Colonel Wilson, many of you go home from school through the park. Others run cross-country, and you also play soccer and lacrosse in the park. I'm going to leave my number at the precinct with the office here at school.
You can contact me at any time, day or night, at the number if you've seen anything that could be helpful to us."
The Sojourner Truth School killer couldn't take his eyes off the towering homicide detective who spoke so very calmly and confidently. He wondered if he could possibly be a match for this one. Not to mention motherhumping Detective Alex Cross, who reminded him of his own real father -- a cop.
He thought that he could be a match for them.
“Does anybody have any questions?” Sampson asked from the stage. “Any questions at all? This is the time for it. This is the place. Speak up, young men.”
The killer wanted to shout from his seat. He had an overwhelming impulse to throw his right arm high in the air and volunteer some real help. He finally sat on his hands, right on his fingers.
I unwittingly saw something in Garfield Park, sir. I might just know who killed those two kids with an eighteen-inch, tape-reinforced baseball bat.
Actually, to be truthful, I killed them, sir. I'm the child killer, you feeble asshole! Catch me if you can.
You're bigger. You're much bigger. But I'm so much smarter than you could ever be.
I'm only thirteen years old. I'm already this good!Just wait until I get a little older. Chew on that, you dumb bastards.
Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill
PART 4
A-HUNTING WE WILL GO
I LAY ON THE COUCH with Rosie the cat and a full sack of nightmares.
Rosie was a beautiful, reddish brown Abyssinian. She was wonderfully athletic, independent, feral, and also a great nuzzler.
She reminded me of the much larger cats of Africa in the way she moved. One weekend morning she just showed up at the house, liked it, and stayed.
“You're not going to leave us one day, are you, Rosie? Leave us like you came?” Rosie shook her whole body “What a dopey question,” she was telling me. “No, absolutely not. I'm part of this family now.”
I couldn't sleep. Even Rosie's purring didn't relax me. I was a few aches beyond bone-tired, but my mind was racing badly I was counting murders, not sheep. About ten o'clock I decided to go for a drive to clear my head. Maybe get in touch with my chi energy. Maybe get a sharper insight into one of the murder cases.
I drove with the car windows open. It was minus three degrees outside.
I didn't know exactly where I was going -- and yet unconsciously, I did know. Shrink shrinks shrink.
Both murder cases were running hard and fast inside my head.
They were on dangerous parallel tracks. I kept reviewing and re-reviewing my talk with the CIA contract killer Andrew Klauk. I was trying to connect what he'd said to the Jack and Jill murders.
Could one of the “ghosts” be Jack?
I found myself on New York Avenue, which is also Route 30 and eventually turns into the John Hanson Highway. Christine Johnson lived out this way, on the far side of the beltway in Prince Georges County. I knew where Christine lived. I'd looked it up in the casenotes of the first detective who interviewed her after Shanelle Green's murder.
This is a crazy thing, I thought as I drove in the direction of her town -- Mitchellville.
Earlier that night, I'd talked to Damon about how things were going at school now, and then about the teachers there. I eventually got around to the principal. Damon saw through my act like the little Tasmanian devil that he is sometimes.
“You like her, don't you?” he asked me, and his eyes lit up like twin beacons. "You do, don't you, Daddy? Everybody does.
Even Nana does. She says Mrs. Johnson is your type. You like her, right?"
“There's nothing not to like about Mrs. Johnson,” I said to Damon. “She's married, though. Don't forget that.”
“Don't you forget,” Damon said and laughed like Sampson.
And now here I was driving through the suburban neighborhood relatively late at night. What in hell was I doing? What was I thinking of? Had I been spending so much time around madmen that finally some of it rubbed off? Or was I actually following one of my better instincts?
I spotted Summer Street and made a quick right turn. There was a mild squeal of tires that pierced the perfect quiet of the neighborhood. I had to admit it was beautiful out in subur-bia, even at night. The streets were all lit up. Lots of Christmas lights and expensive holiday props. There were wide curbs for rain runoff. White sidewalk
s. Colonial-style lampposts on all the street corners.
I wondered if it was hard for Christine Johnson to leave this safe, lovely enclave to come to work in Southeast every day. I wondered what her personal demons were. I wondered why she worked such long hours. And what her husband was like.
Then I saw Christine Johnson's dark blue car in the driveway of a large, brick-faced Colonial home. My heart jumped a little.
Suddenly, everything became very real for me.
I continued up the blacktop street until I was well past her house. Then I pulled oveve who interviewed her after Shanelle Green's murder.
This is a crazy thing, I thought as I drove in the direction of her town -- Mitchellville.
Earlier that night, I'd talked to Damon about how things were going at school now, and then about the teachers there. I eventually got around to the principal. Damon saw through my act like the little Tasmanian devil that he is sometimes.
“You like her, don't you?” he asked me, and his eyes lit up like twin beacons. "You do, don't you, Daddy? Everybody does.
Even Nana does. She says Mrs. Johnson is your type. You like her, right?"
“There's nothing not to like about Mrs. Johnson,” I said to Damon. “She's married, though. Don't forget that.”
“Don't you forget,” Damon said and laughed like Sampson.
And now here I was driving through the suburban neighborhood relatively late at night. What in hell was I doing? What was I thinking of? Had I been spending so much time around madmen that finally some of it rubbed off? Or was I actually following one of my better instincts?
I spotted Summer Street and made a quick right turn. There was a mild squeal of tires that pierced the perfect quiet of the neighborhood. I had to admit it was beautiful out in subur-bia, even at night. The streets were all lit up. Lots of Christmas lights and expensive holiday props. There were wide curbs for rain runoff. White sidewalks. Colonial-style lampposts on all the street corners.
I wondered if it was hard for Christine Johnson to leave this safe, lovely enclave to come to work in Southeast every day. I wondered what her personal demons were. I wondered why she worked such long hours. And what her husband was like.
Then I saw Christine Johnson's dark blue car in the driveway of a large, brick-faced Colonial home. My heart jumped a little.
Suddenly, everything became very real for me.
I continued up the blacktop street until I was well past her house. Then I pulled over against the curb and shut off the headlights. Tried to shut down the roaring inside my head. I stared at the rear of somebody's shiny white Ford Explorer parked out on the street. I stared for a good ninety seconds, about how long the white Explorer would have lasted before it was stolen on the streets of D.C.
I had the conscious thought that maybe this was not such a good idea. Doctor Cross didn't exactly approve of Doctor Cross's actions. This was real close to being inappropriate behavior. Parking in the dark in a posh, suburban neighborhood like this wasn't a real sound concept, either.
A few therapist jokes were running around inside my head.
Learn to dread one day at a time. You're still having a lousy childhood.
If you're really happy, you must be in denial.
“Just go home,” I said out loud in the darkened car. “Just say no.”
I continued to sit in the darkness, though, listening to the occasional theatrical sigh, the loud debate buzzing inside my head.
I could smell pine trees and smoke from someone's chimney through the open car window. My engine was clicking gently as it cooled. I knew a little about the neighborhood: successful lawyers and doctors, urban planners, professors from the University of Maryland, a few retired officers from Andrews Air Force Base.
Very nice and very secure. No need for a dragonslayer out here.
All right then, go see her. Go see both of them, Christine and her husband.
I supposed that I could bluff my way through some trumped up reason why I had to come out to Mitchellville. I had the gift of gab when I needed it.
I started the car again, the old Porsche. I didn't know what I was going to do, which way this was going to lead. I took my foot off the brake, and the automobile crept along on its own. slowly, I crept.
I continued for a full block like that, listening to the crunch of a few leaves under the tires, the occasional pop of a small stone.
Every noise seemed very loud and magnified to me.
I finally stopped in front of the Johnson house. Right in front.
I noticed the bristle&brush, manicured lawn, and well-trimmed yews.
Moment of truth. Moment of decision. Moment of crisis.
I could see lights burning brightly inside the house, tiny fires.
Somebody seemed to be up at the Johnson house. The dark blue Mercedes sedan was sitting peacefully against the closed garage door.
She has a nice car and a beautiful home. Christine Johnson doesn't need any terrible trouble from you. Don't bring your monsters out here. She has a lawyer husband. She's doing real fine for herself.
What did she say her husband's name was -- George? George the lawyer lobbyist. George the rich lawyer lobbyist.
There was only one car in the driveway. Her car. The garage door was closed. I could picture another car in there, maybe a Lexus. Maybe a gas grill for cookouts, too. Power lawn mower, leaf blower, maybe a couple of mountain bikes for weekend fun.
I shut off the engine and got out of my car.
The dragonslayer comes to Mitchellville.
I WAS DEFINITELY CURIOUS about Christine Johnson, and maybe it was a little more complicated than that. You like her, don't you, Daddy? Maybe? Yes, I did like her -- a lot. At any rate, I felt as if I needed to see her, even if it made me feel tremendously awkward and foolish. A good thought struck me as I climbed out of the car: how much more foolish to walk away.
Besides, Christine Johnson was part of the complex homicide case I was working on. There was a logical enough reason for me to want to talk to her. Two students from her school had been murdered so far. Two of her babies. Why that school? Why had a killer come there? So close to my home?
I walked to the front door and was actually glad that all the shimmering houselights were turned on bright. I didn't want her husband, or any of the neighbors in Mitchellville, to spot me approaching the house in a cloak of shadows and darkness.
I rang the bell, heard melodious chimes, and waited like a porch sculpture. A dog barked loudly somewhere inside the house. Then Christine Johnson appeared at the front door.
She had on faded jeans, a wrinkled yellow crewneck sweater, white half-socks, and no shoes. A tortoise shell comb pulled her hair back to one side, and she was wearing her glasses. She looked as if she were working at home. Still working at this late hour.
Peas in a pod, weren't we? Well, not exactly. I was a long way from my pod, actually.
“Detective Cross?” She was surprised; understandably so. I was kind of surprised to be standing there myself.
“Nothing has happened on the case,” I quickly reassured her.
“I just have a few more questions.” That was true. Don't lie to her, Alex. Don't you dare lie to her. Not even once. Not ever.
She smiled then. Her eyes seemed to smile as well. They were very large and very brown, and I had to stop staring at them immediately. “You do work too late, too hard, even under the current circumstances,” she said.
“I couldn't turn this horrible thing off tonight. There are two cases, actually. So here I am. If this is a bad time, I'll stop by at the school tomorrow. That's no problem.”
“No, come on in,” she said. “I know how busy you are. I can imagine. Come in, please. The house is a mess, like our government, all the usual boilerplate copy applies.”
She led me back through an entrance way with a cream marble floor and past the living room with its comfortable-looking sectional sofa and lots of earth colors: sienna, ocher, and burnt umber.
There
was no guided tour, though. No more questions about why I was there. A little too much silence suddenly. My chi energy was draining off somewhere.
She took me into the huge kitchen. She went to the refrigerator, a big, double-door jobbie that opened with a loud whoosh.
“Let me see, we've got beer, diet cola, sun tea. I can make coffee or hot tea if you'd like. You do work too hard. That's for sure.”
She sounded a little like a teacher now. Understanding, but gently reminding me that I might have areas of improvement.
“A beer sounds pretty good,” I told her. I glanced around the kitchen, which was easily twice the size of ours at home. There were rows of white custom cabinets. A skylight in the ceiling. A flyer on the fridge promoting a “Walk for the Homeless.” She had a very nice home -- she and George did.
I noted an embroidered cloth on a wall stretcher. Swahili words: Kwenda mzuri. It's a farewell that means “go well.” A gentle hint? Word to the wise?
“I'm glad to hear you'll have a beer,” she said smiling. “That would mean you're at least close to knocking off for the day. It's almost ten-thirty. Did you know that? What time is it on your clock?”
“Is it that late? I'm real sorry,” I said to her. “We can do this tomorrow.”
Christine brought me a Heineken and iced tea for herself.
She sat across from me at an island counter that subdivided the kitchen. The house was far from being the mess she'd warned me about when I came in. It was nicely lived-in. There was a sweet, charming display of drawings from the Truth School on one wall.
A beautiful mud cloth on a stretcher also grabbed my eye.
“So. What's up, doc?” she asked. “What brings you outside the beltway?”
“Honestly? I couldn't sleep. I took a drive. I drove out this way. Then I had the bright idea that maybe we could cover some ground on the case... or maybe I just needed to talk to somebody.”
I finally confessed, and it felt pretty good. Directionally good, anyway.
“Well, that's okay. That's fine. I can relate to that. I couldn't sleep myself,” she said. “I've been wound tight ever since Shanelle's murder. And then poor Vernon Wheatley. I was pruning the plants, with ER on the television for background noise. Pretty pathetic, don't you think?”
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