Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  “The only way to come out here is stoned.”

  “Yeah,” Averly snickered.

  Goldman looked over at Averly. He’d been curious about something but wasn’t sure about it. He had to ask. “Have you been drinking?”

  Averly continued staring straight ahead as he drove. “What are you talking about?”

  “I smell alcohol in here.”

  “It’s not from me, unless it’s my mouthwash.”

  Goldman shook his head as he glanced out his side of the car.

  They continued bouncing down the road. Tall clumps of saw grass dominated the landscape.

  “Where the hell is this place again?” Goldman asked.

  “About twenty miles south of Kissimmee, off Cypress Lake.”

  “And it’s a river?”

  “Dead River isn’t really a river. It’s more like a canal that connects two lakes.”

  “Jesus Christ, this is unbelievable.”

  “Yeah, well, wait until the punkies attack.”

  “The what?” Goldman asked.

  “No-see-ums. They’re like mosquitoes, but worse. You can’t see the little fuckers.”

  “Oh great.”

  Averly reached behind his seat and handed Goldman a bottle of mosquito repellent. “Here, rub some of this on your face and arms. It’ll help.”

  “There they are,” Averly said as he pointed straight ahead.

  Goldman spotted a red Polk County fire-rescue truck.

  “Don’t forget to put some of that on your ears,” Averly said.

  Averly brought the car to a sudden stop behind the fire-rescue truck. To the left were three sheriff’s cars, an ambulance, and another car with Medical Examiner printed on the side in bold red letters.

  Goldman opened the passenger door and stepped out. He heard a high-pitched whine and was greeted by a swarm of tiny insects. The repellent held its own against the attack.

  The two walked to the clearing where the vehicles were parked. One of the deputies was walking toward them.

  “I’m Detective Rob Averly, Orlando Police. This is FBI Special Agent Doug Goldman, from Quantico.”

  “Howdy. I’m Deputy Damon Williams, Polk County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Williams led them to the side of the river. There was a white sheet covering what had to be the young girl’s body lying on the trampled coarse grass.

  “I’d like to have a look,” Goldman said.

  The deputy leaned over and pulled the sheet down until the girl’s body was completely exposed. She was face up and nude, her entire right leg was missing. It wasn’t the absent limb that interested him, but the letters etched into her forehead.

  CXJ, it read. Jesus, he’s marked another one, Goldman thought.

  “What do you suppose happened to her leg?” Goldman asked.

  “I think a gator got it. So does the medical examiner.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Those two over there.” The deputy pointed toward two men in soiled ball caps, blue jeans, and shirts with sleeves cut off at the shoulder. They were standing by one of the sheriff cars talking to another deputy. “They spotted her body floating in the water.”

  “What were they doing out here?”

  “They were on their airboat. This is a popular place for those things.”

  “So I heard,” Goldman said. He looked over at the strange contraption. It consisted of a boat hull, two elevated seats, and a large engine at the back with an airplane propeller.

  Goldman knelt down to take a closer look.

  “Don’t touch the body,” a voice from behind Goldman ordered.

  Goldman looked over his shoulder, and there was Dr. Harold Albright staring down at him.

  “What are you doing here?” Goldman asked.

  “They called me in on this one. It’s the letters on her forehead, same as the Riley girl. She also has similar wounds on her wrists and around her neck.”

  “I know, I can see them. You think she was raped?”

  “Won’t know until I do a complete exam, but it appears she was.”

  “So you’re doing the autopsy?”

  “Probably late tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow evening.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “I know what day it is.”

  “After the autopsy, I’m off the rest of the day. Call me Monday morning.”

  Goldman nodded then turned to the deputy sheriff.

  “No witnesses?” Goldman asked.

  “None,” the deputy said as he shooed away a swarm of no-see-ums. “What’s with the letters carved on the girl’s forehead?”

  Goldman shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know.”

  Goldman hurried for the car, his white cotton shirt drenched with perspiration. Averly already had the engine running. When Goldman plopped down in the passenger seat he was hit with a gale of ice-cold air from the air conditioner.

  Goldman looked over at Averly. “God, that air feels good.”

  “Hot as shit out there, isn’t it?”

  “How the hell do you stand it?”

  “You get used to it. It takes a while, but you do.”

  It was a rock-and-roll ride out of the swampland, but at least inside the car it was cool. Goldman leaned back and let the cold air from the vents blast his sweat-soaked shirt. His thoughts drifted to the Breckenridge girl and the phone call to the Riley home earlier this morning. If anyone thought this could be a copycat murder, they were dead wrong. Especially after seeing the body. All of the facts pointed to Gabriel. That’s how he would refer to him from now on. These were the Gabriel murders. He could see the newspaper headlines now: Gabriel Murder on Dead River.

  Goldman was sure he’d nailed the profile of the killer. He knew what Gabriel was up to and quite a bit about his personality, but the remaining and most pertinent question still plagued him: Who is he?

  His cell phone was ringing, snapping him back to the bouncy ride.

  “Goldman.”

  A long pause.

  “How long ago was it?” Goldman asked.

  He listened for a long time as he shook his head.

  “No suspects?”

  Another long pause.

  “I see. Give me their names.”

  Goldman scribbled in a small notepad.

  “So it’s a dead case.”

  “Uh-huh … All right. Let me know if you hear anything more.”

  48

  “WHO WAS that?” Averly asked.

  “Wilkerson,” Goldman said. “It took him some time, but he dug up a similar murder case from twelve years ago.”

  “In Florida?”

  “No, Mississippi. Magee, Mississippi. Looks like our perp’s been at this for a while, just as I suspected. A blonde teenager’s body was found on a creek bank in a park there, July 1989.”

  “You think it was our guy?”

  “No doubt. They found the body with her hands tied behind her back with a piece of nylon rope, and there was one around her neck.”

  “That’s all he came up with? Come on, there’s probably tons of those kinds of cases you could dig up around the country over the past several years.”

  “Maybe, but there’s more.”

  “What?”

  “She had the letters CXJ carved on her forehead.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “I’m not.”

  “I heard you say it’s a dead case.”

  “That’s what Wilkerson was told.”

  “So they never had any suspects?”

  “There were two, but their alibis checked out. I got the names.”

  “That’s what you were writing down?”

  Goldman pulled the notepad out. “They were George Rulon Ramsey and Earle Lester Hume.”

  “No aliases for either?”

  “None.”

  “I’ll run the names when we get back.”

  “Let me know what you come up with. Let’s find out if our
Gabriel is living somewhere in central Florida.”

  “Is that what you’re calling him, Gabriel?”

  Goldman nodded. “The angel of death.”

  Averly pulled the car onto an asphalt road, and the jolting finally ended. Goldman tugged on his shirt where it was still pasted to his chest.

  “We’re about thirty minutes from your hotel.”

  “Good.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You told the deputy back there you didn’t know what the letters CXJ meant,” Averly said as he snapped his head back. “But you do know. Right?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I can tell, cop’s instinct.”

  “You have good instincts. Okay, here it is, but keep it to yourself.”

  “It stays with me.”

  “It’s the mark of the beast, 666.”

  “Wait, the letters are actually numbers?”

  “It’s from the ancient Greeks. They used to represent numbers with letters.”

  “But those aren’t Greek letters.”

  Goldman turned his head slowly in Averly’s direction. “You’re as observant as you are instinctive,” he said in a condescending tone. “Of course they’re not Greeks letters. They’re English equivalents.”

  “Okay, I got it. But why’s this Gabriel branding his victims? Is it some kind of cult thing?”

  “There’s no cult, this is the work of one person. He has an agenda and will stop at nothing to fulfill what he believes is his calling.”

  “So what are you saying? He kills because God commands him?”

  “Something like that. A professor friend of mine at George Mason checked his library and found what I was looking for.”

  “Which was what?”

  Goldman wiped the remaining beads of sweat from his brow. “A book, Beyond the King of Thebes by Creon Denomolous.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I hadn’t either. Anyway, apparently the book starts off talking about a Greek legend that tells of a king of Thebes who had his niece buried alive because she disobeyed him. Then Denomolous conjectures there was a secret society of men in ancient Greece, the Koinonia Agnos, which means something like the society of the pure. They performed sacrificial acts similar to the legend, but much more violent.”

  “What was the point?”

  “To rid their society of women they considered evil. The women would be decapitated, strangled, or in some cases, burned alive.”

  “Like the Salem witch hunts.”

  “Sort of, but here’s where it gets really interesting. According to Denomolous, the Koinonia Agnos suddenly disappeared around 400 AD, but for about two hundred years prior to that, the society required that every woman be marked before they were put to death. The head of the society in 200 AD, called the preceptor, claimed he received a divine proclamation that required the women to be marked. And he was the only person allowed to kill them.”

  “I think I know where this is going.”

  “If they had the letters CXJ carved on their foreheads, with some special bone-handled knife, they would be pure once again at the instant of death.”

  “I’m back to my cult theory.”

  “There is no cult. Our guy’s acting alone. He’s read Denomolous’s book and believes in the practices of the Koinonia Agnos. He probably thinks he’s a modern-day preceptor.”

  “Then why does he refer to himself as Gabriel?”

  “Good question. The preceptor in 200 AD took on a nickname.”

  “Gabriel.”

  “That’s right. The angel of death.”

  “So what’s our Gabriel do all day, check out women to decide who’s next?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. I’m convinced Gabriel possesses multiple personalities.”

  “He’s schizophrenic.”

  “No, he’s not a schizophrenic. He possesses multiple personalities. They’re not the same thing.”

  “They’re not?”

  “No. This condition is sometimes referred to as dissociative identity disorder. You’ll hear the shrinks refer to the condition as either that or as multiple personality disorder.”

  “What causes it?”

  “Usually a result of prolonged and severe abuse during childhood. The person will resort to fantasy as an escape from his or her painful reality. It’s actually a rare condition, but I’ve seen it before.”

  “Hmm.”

  “He could slip in and out of two distinctive personalities, triggered by who knows what.”

  “Maybe it’s blond hair, so far both victims were blonde.”

  “Could be. His mother could be a blonde.”

  Goldman glanced out of the passenger window and spotted his hotel. “Hey, we’re here. Just pull up there were it says valet parking.” He grabbed his briefcase from the backseat. “So we’ll meet the Most Wanted in America people tomorrow morning at ten-thirty, right?”

  “Yes, in my office.”

  49

  THE TV SHOW Most Wanted in America aired Monday evenings at nine Eastern. This episode was Goldman’s shining moment, his Andy Warhol fifteen minutes of fame. The producers and the host, Tom Stuart, loved him. America had now been introduced to FBI Special Agent Douglas Goldman on a prime-time hit show. He was at the top of his game.

  He masterfully presented a chilling account of the two heinous murders and then delivered a sympathetic message to the families of the two victims.

  “Sara Ann Riley was about to start her last year of high school, and Tami Leigh Breckenridge was in grade school,” Goldman told America. “Their young lives were tragically cut short literally at the hands of a vicious butcher.”

  He referred to the killer as Gabriel.

  “We only know this monstrous predator of young girls as Gabriel,” Goldman said. “He’s intelligent, cunning, and extremely dangerous.”

  The original idea for the twenty-minute segment was to concentrate on Tami Breckenridge’s abduction. However, after the Dead River discovery made it clear that this was the same perpetrator who abducted and murdered Sara Ann, the theme was altered to the pursuit of a serial killer.

  “Gabriel has sent waves of fear through the small sun-and-fun resort town of Cocoa Beach, Florida, and now his terror has spread to the attractions capital of America, Orlando,” Tom Stuart said. “Help us get this killer off our streets and into jail where he belongs. If you have information about any of the fugitives featured on tonight’s show, you can call our toll-free number twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Be safe, America,” Tom Stuart said to close the broadcast.

  50

  GOLDMAN PUNCHED the power button on the remote, and the TV screen faded to black then crackled with static electricity. He sat back on the couch in his hotel suite and closed his eyes, resting his head on the back cushion. He wasn’t convinced that Most Wanted in America would or could be helpful in this case. Although, since the show had debuted in 1997, 379 fugitives from justice featured had later been captured by law enforcement. But Gabriel wasn’t your typical perpetrator of crimes against society. He was slippery and crafty, a calculating risk-taker who was obsessed with being Gabriel the preceptor. The chosen one, the only man ordained to rid the world of the sinful and wicked women who can bear children who will in turn further spread the plague permeating society. Gabriel will slip up, Goldman thought. It’s bound to happen soon. I can feel it.

  His mind wandered, thinking about tomorrow, a big day for the Bureau. Bob Mueller, nominated by President Bush, would become the sixth director of the FBI. When he heard Mueller was going to be their new chief, he’d had mixed feelings. Goldman actually had a close relationship with the previous director, and now someone who he had only met once was taking over. It was a cause for concern. New guys at the top always like to mix it up a little when they first take command, to show who the boss is.

  Goldman opened his eyes and checked his watch. It was ten-th
irty, time to call Averly for an update on the phone calls being made to those two hundred numbers. He leaned over and picked up the phone.

  “This is Goldman. Where are you with the phone numbers?”

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Averly said. “Good God, do you ever relax, take a break, have a drink or something?”

  “Cut it,” Goldman snapped back. “What’s the status?”

  “All right, let’s see, as of ten minutes ago, we’ve made a hundred and fifty calls with no luck. Forty-two of those we didn’t get an answer.”

  “Then keep going, continue calling. And go back to the ones where no one picked up. You’ll eventually hit the number we’re after.”

  “Shit, eventually is right. I’m getting a fricking blister on my index finger.”

  “Keep calling.”

  For Adam, one of the most wonderful things about Florida was the summer evenings. Especially on a clear night when the stars twinkle like diamonds, and the sweet smell of night-blooming jasmine fills the humid air. Tonight was one of those nights.

  But after an agonizing hour of Most Wanted in America and his first day back to work, he had to take a walk. He had to relieve the vexation, the rage, the hurting that was churning inside of him. As he walked down Boca Tigre Drive, with long, deliberate strides, he could hear the roar of the surf, the powerful force of swelling waves pounding on the sandy beach. Under the street lights, his skin glistened with beads of sweat from the thick humid air. He picked up the pace. An elderly man crept along on a late evening stroll in the opposite direction. Adam moved aside on the sidewalk as they passed each other, both men offering greetings with a nod.

  As the man inched by him, Adam thought of Sara Ann’s image flashing on the TV screen. The vivid picture of her appeared and disappeared as he walked, his stomach knotted from both grief and anger. But it was anger that now seemed to dominate his thoughts, that and thoughts of the man, this Gabriel, who had shattered his world.

  Adam was about a mile from his house, still on the long stretch of Boca Tigre Drive, when he spotted a black sedan creeping along in the opposite direction. He watched as the sedan slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. His nerves bristled with electricity, and his heart banged against his ribs. The driver’s door of the sedan opened slowly, and a foot appeared. Adam stopped and stepped backward off the sidewalk into a shadowy pocket of overgrown wax myrtles.