Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  “What are they?”

  “I’ll get to that in a few minutes. In addition to the twenty-seven symbols to represent the numbers, there are a couple of other symbols used for meaning.”

  “Okay, okay. How does the system work? Is it like a table look-up?”

  “Basically. Let’s cut to the chase and use the letters you are interested in as an example. You gave me C-X-J.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I worked backward and determined first that ‘C’ is related to the twenty-second letter in the Greek alphabet. You probably recall it looks like an ‘X’, but it’s pronounced k-eye.”

  “So what number does it represent?”

  “In the Ionic system, six hundred.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “Just hold on, Doug. This is like a fine wine, you can’t rush it. You have to open the bottle, let it breathe, pour some, and savor the bouquet before you taste—”

  “Jon, please. Get to the point. I have a freak running loose somewhere in central Florida. A goddamn murderer.”

  “Christ, man, you need to lighten up. But if you insist. The next letter is the English letter ‘X’. It corresponds to the fourteenth letter in the Greek alphabet. It’s pronounced x-eye. In the Ionic system it has a numerical representation of sixty. The last letter ‘J’ is what I had a problem with last night when I was thinking about this.”

  “What does it represent?”

  “In the Ionic system there are three additional characters that I mentioned before. They are digamma, koppa, and sampi. The ‘J’ is the English equivalent of the digamma character, and is sometimes called the stigma. It carries pejorative connotations in some religious beliefs.”

  “The stigma, like a burn or cut into flesh?”

  “That’s correct, like a mark of shame or discredit.”

  “Hmm. So what numerical value does the ‘J’ have?”

  “Six. And the Ionic system operates on an additive principle.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that you add all of the numerical values of the letters together and you get—”

  “Son-of-a-bitch—”

  “Yes, 666. The mark of the beast.”

  “He marked her.”

  “He sure did.”

  “He marked her for a reason,” Goldman thought out loud. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. That’s your specialty. You have to figure out what the fucking wackos are thinking. You talk about having job security.”

  “Wait a minute. Gabriel. He referred to himself as Gabriel.”

  “That’s what you said last night.”

  “He also said he’d been chosen by God—”

  “Wait, I just thought of something,” Lofton interrupted.

  “What’s that?”

  “Gabriel is one of seven archangels.”

  “Right.”

  “But did you know in Hebrew lore Gabriel was the ruler of the first of seven heavens, the one called Shamayim?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, there’s more. Jewish legend tells of Gabriel as the angel of death and destruction.”

  “Damn, this is beginning to make some sense.”

  “Think so?” Lofton asked. “When you have it, let me know.”

  “I will. I certainly will.”

  “Wait. There’s one more thing. I just thought of this really old book, one I think was published at the turn of last century. Very controversial. Damn, I can’t recall the title, but I remember the author’s last name, Denomolous.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Don’t know, never read it.”

  “You fucking with me, Jon?”

  “No, no, listen, I’m serious. A fellow graduate student at Berkley told me about it years ago. Had to do with some sort of crazy fucking cult that executed women.”

  “In the U.S.?”

  “No. Somewhere like … Shit I can’t remember, somewhere in Europe I think.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing.”

  “No, no. I’m going to the library tonight. I’ll see if I can find it.”

  “Don’t waste a lot of time.”

  “I have to go to the library anyway. I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, sounds like you’re dealing with a fucking loon, Doug.”

  “And a very dangerous one. Thanks, buddy.”

  40

  IT WAS ELEVEN-THIRTY Monday morning. Papers and photographs were strewn about on the desk and floor, some resting on the crumpled comforter at the foot of Goldman’s unmade bed. He opened the curtains on the sliding glass door to the balcony overlooking the swimming pool. Sunlight burst into the room, lighting up the Renoir “Tulips in a Vase” print on the opposite wall. A half-eaten tuna salad sandwich abandoned on a room service tray gave the room a distinctive fish-market odor.

  Goldman was flipping through the medical examiner’s report for the fourth time that morning when the phone rang. It’s got to be Chang, he thought as he grabbed the receiver.

  “Goldman.”

  “It’s Wayne.”

  “Yeah, I know. Did you run the Riley letter through the ESDA?” Goldman asked.

  “Yes, but only the first page—”

  “Why only the first page?”

  “On the first pass the machine broke,” Chang explained, his accent thickening slightly.

  “What?” Goldman roared. “I don’t believe this. Goddamn it!”

  “Wait a minute, don’t get carried away. I’ve had a technician check it out and he found the problem. He’s ordered the part. It should be here Thursday.”

  “Thursday! Can’t he get it any sooner than that?”

  “According to him there’s only one supplier for that part, and they can’t ship it until Wednesday.”

  “Look, Wayne, as soon as that part is in, I want the letter analyzed. I don’t care if it means working all night.”

  “It’ll be done as soon as the equipment is fixed.”

  Goldman hung up the phone and immediately called Detective Wilkerson.

  “Did forensics come up with anything from Dawn Riley’s bedroom?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Shit. How about Dunlop Pest Control?”

  “I finally tracked down the guy who treated the Riley house at the beginning of the month. I went over to Dunlop’s office and talked to him. He checked out. He confirmed that Sara Ann Riley did let him into the house that day to spray. He’s treated their house for the past two years and knows the family. He said that no one else was there.”

  Goldman’s eyes squinted as he rubbed his temples. “I guess that’s a dead end.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “There’s something else.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Questioning him some more he recalled seeing a vehicle leaving the Riley driveway as he started to turn into their place.”

  “Did he get a description of the car or the driver?”

  “No. He vaguely remembers the car pulling out of the driveway onto the main road. He couldn’t remember what type of car or color. He thought it was dark blue or black, but wasn’t sure.”

  “Who the hell was in that car?” Goldman thought out loud.

  “I called Adam Riley and asked him if he knew anyone who drove a dark blue or black car. Maybe one of Sara Ann’s or Dawn’s friends. He couldn’t think of anyone except the priest at his church. He thought the priest drove a black car.”

  “All right.”

  Goldman pressed the switch hook, released it, and punched in Carillo’s cell phone number. He peered out the glass door and watched a family arrange five lounge chairs for an early afternoon bake in the sun.

  “Anything going on that I need to know?” Goldman asked.

  “Nothing. I guess forensics came up with zilch.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I can’t believe Dawn Riley’s
still doing the press conference.”

  “Well, she is. Tough girl.”

  “Definitely. You think it’s worth it, given what’s she’s been through? He’s obviously already infatuated with her.”

  “Obviously. But I do. We want to get him so lathered up he’ll start making mistakes. This could help.”

  “Will it be this afternoon?”

  “No. Two of the networks agreed to have it at the house but not until tomorrow morning. That’s the best they could do.”

  “What about the other two networks?”

  “Haven’t heard back from them. But I do have the scoop on the mystery letters carved on the Riley girl’s forehead.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re actually numbers.”

  “Numbers? How’s that?”

  “I have a friend that’s an expert in ancient history. He says the Greeks used letters to represent numbers eons ago. They represent 666.”

  “No shit! The devil’s social security number. Sounds like this guy’s into some kind of cult crap.”

  “Maybe. But I’m working on a theory.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll let you know. But for now, let’s keep this between the two of us.”

  “No problem.”

  41

  AT TEN-TWENTY Tuesday morning the last minute details for Dawn’s television debut were being settled. The other two Orlando affiliates decided at the eleventh-hour to cover the press conference, making four stations total. Cameramen made final adjustments to their cameras and tripods, and several microphones were checked one last time. Reporters, grasping their pads of paper, herded around the wooden podium set up on the driveway in front of the Riley house. Inside the house, Dawn finished her makeup while her mother fussed over the light blue summer dress Dawn was wearing, smoothing the wrinkles and adjusting the shoulder straps. This would be the first time a family member spoke to the press about the murder of Sara Ann Riley.

  The front door finally opened. Agent Goldman was first out, followed by Dawn, Adam, and Valerie. Goldman approached the podium, and the Rileys stood to his left. A man in the crowd pointed toward Goldman. All of the stations went live.

  Adam stood with his arms at his sides, glancing around the crowd. Is he here or at home watching this?

  “I am FBI Special Agent Doug Goldman, in charge of the investigation of the murder of Sara Ann Riley,” he said. His voice was deep and exact. “Miss Dawn Riley, Sara Ann’s sister, will first make a statement on behalf of her family,” Goldman said, as he extended his arm toward Dawn. “When she’s done, I will field any questions you may have.” Goldman turned, faced Dawn, and nodded. “Miss Riley.”

  Goldman moved to the side, and Dawn walked slowly to the podium grasping a teddy bear in her arms.

  Her long, light-brown hair was pulled back tight in a ponytail, and her face was radiant. Adam watched her walk to the podium. It was almost like he was watching a movie in slow motion. Between the makeup her mother helped her with, the pulled-back hair, and wearing her sister’s favorite dress, Dawn could easily pass for Sara Ann’s twin. She looks just like her, he thought. The cameras zoomed in on her.

  She finally made it to the podium. “Today I am speaking on behalf of my family,” Dawn said, with a slightly shaky voice, “but more importantly for my sister, Sara Ann.” She raised the teddy bear with both hands then gently sat it down on the podium. “You see this? This was my sister’s. This is one of the many things we have to remember her. We want her back, but that won’t happen. She’s gone forever.” Dawn lowered her head for a few seconds then looked up, straight ahead toward the cameras. “The man that killed her is still out there, and he could kill again.”

  One of the microphones toppled over, landing with a thud. A technician darted to the podium and planted it upright. A monitor resting on a metal box was facing the group standing around the podium. Adam could see tears welling up in Dawn’s eyes.

  She stopped for a moment to wipe away the tears streaming down her face then looked toward her father. Adam nodded his support.

  Dawn faced the cameras again and continued. “If anyone has information, please contact the local police department. My sister’s killer must be caught.”

  Adam checked the monitor. There were streams of tears pouring down her face. “That—that’s all I can say,” Dawn said.

  “Miss Riley?” A reporter shouted from the front of the crowd, raising her hand high in the air. “How’s your family taking all of this?”

  Adam went to his daughter and with his arm around her waist walked her back to her mother. Valerie’s face was puffy and red, her eyes swollen with tears.

  Goldman stepped quickly to the podium and leaned into the cluster of microphones. Adam could see Goldman’s face in the monitor, shooting a severe stare straight ahead. “I said I would field the questions,” Goldman said in a cold, authoritative tone.

  “Okay, then,” the same reporter said, “do you have any suspects in Sara Ann Riley’s killing?”

  “No, we don’t, but we do have evidence that is getting us closer.”

  “And what evidence is that?” another reporter shouted imperiously.

  “I won’t discuss details that could jeopardize this case,” Goldman said.

  “Agent Goldman,” a third reporter said, “do you think there will be more murders?”

  “Yes, there’s a good chance, if he’s not caught soon.”

  “What leads you to that conclusion?” the same reporter asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss those details.”

  Adam saw a hand in the back of the crowd go high into the air. He recognized the face. It was Bruce Bingham, the biggest asshole to ever call himself a reporter for WFTV, the ABC affiliate in Orlando.

  “Mr. Goldman,” Bingham said in deep, resonating voice, painfully pausing between the two words.

  Goldman pointed toward Bingham. “Yes.”

  “The medical examiner’s report showed there were letters carved on the forehead of Sara Ann Riley. What do they mean?”

  Valerie shrieked. Dawn stood frozen. Adam’s head snapped in Goldman’s direction. Goldman stared ahead and gave his answer the instant Bingham’s last word rolled out of his mouth.

  “I don’t know where you got that information, but again, I will not discuss any details that could jeopardize this case. The murderer is still at large. Our major concern is catching him before he strikes again.”

  “But we need details about the murder for our viewers,” Bingham said.

  “No more questions,” Goldman stated.

  Adam heard grumbles from the crowd, grateful that Agent Goldman was handling the press conference. Bingham’s a bigger asshole than I realized.

  “I do have one final comment,” Goldman announced. “Mr. Riley informed me this morning that the family has offered one-hundred thousand dollars to anyone who supplies information leading to the arrest of Sara Ann’s killer.”

  “Goldman,” Bingham cried out. “Is the FBI putting up any of its money?”

  Goldman turned from the podium and headed for the Rileys. He opened the front door, and the four disappeared inside.

  42

  THURSDAY EVENING at nine, and the phone in Goldman’s hotel room was clattering. He muted the CNN newscast, cutting off the gaunt brunette with black horn-rimmed glasses in mid-sentence. Osama bin Laden and the U.S.’s inability to track him down were the last words blared from the Philips TV.

  “Goldman.”

  “Hi, Doug,” Wayne Chang said.

  “Did the ESDA uncover anything?”

  “Sure did. You remember I thought I saw some numbers imprinted on the first page of the letter?”

  “Yes. You said it might be a phone number.”

  “It is a phone number, and we also got a name.”

  “No shit. What?”

  “Only a first name. Jack.”

  “Did you call the number?”

  “Hold on, don’t get excited just yet. O
nly part of the number showed up.”

  “Did you get the area code?”

  “The area code’s clear, it’s in Georgia, and the prefix came through. But we could only recognize the third number in the last four digits. The first and second numbers are not clear at all, and the last number is either a two or seven.”

  Goldman calculated in his head. “So, we need to call at most two hundred different phone numbers.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That’ll take some time.”

  “Sure will. Are you starting tonight?”

  “One thing you’re not is a comedian, Chang.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll have Averly put two or three detectives on it tomorrow morning. Okay, give me the numbers.”

  The temperature was already in the eighties Friday morning, and the air was saturated with moisture. The traffic on I-4 was a gnarled fusion of cars and delivery trucks, all seemingly going nowhere. Goldman eased his car north along the long stretch of interstate that was more like a slow-moving parking lot. He couldn’t help but find it amusing that the 132-mile highway, termed an interstate, only spanned Florida from Tampa to Daytona Beach.

  It was seven miles from his hotel to the Orlando FBI office on Winderly Place, and so far he’d been driving, more like stopping, for twenty-five minutes. This is worse than gridlock in D.C., Goldman thought.

  He wanted two, but instead got one detective from the OPD to start calling the numbers. He picked up his cell phone from the passenger seat and called Averly again.

  “Did you try other units?” Goldman asked.

  “I did, but everyone’s tied up,” Averly said. “I can only do so much over here. Can’t Wilkerson help?”

  “I’ve got him off on something else. If you can’t get another detective, I want you calling some of the numbers. And set up a system so you don’t duplicate any numbers.”

  “Come on, I have other things to do.”

  “Hey! There’s nothing more important than this.”

  “Okay, but—”