The Warriors Series Boxset I

by Ty Patterson

  Broker couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Who’s Lester Benjamin?’

  Zeb glanced sideways at Broker as he hurtled his SUV down Broadway. Broker drove with a New Yorker’s indifference to tourists. He swerved around them with a blissful smile at their squawks of protest.

  Zeb had returned to the city after several months and the moment he set foot, the throbbing pulse of the city reached out and charged him. Zeb had been to many jungles. New York was another one. He loved it.

  ‘Lester grew up with Bwana’s father, Robert Kayembe in the Democratic Republic of Congo, in Luvungi, a village of about a thousand people, as you know quite well. Robert became a teacher in the local school, but Lester’s life took a different route. Lester was a rebel and was always demonstrating against the government, for democracy, for eradicating corruption, that kind of stuff. Remember, Robert and Lester had grown up in DRC under Belgian rule, and both had seen a few presidents.’

  Zeb nodded.

  The DRC was the second largest country in Africa and was blessed with minerals; however political instability and frequent infighting had stunted its growth. Its first prime minister, Patrick Lumumba was dismissed in 1960 in a coup lead by Joseph Mobutu. Lumumba was later arrested and executed. Mobutu became the country’s president and he ruled the country till 1997, a rule marked by systemic corruption.

  They passed Madison Square Park and Zeb’s gaze lingered on the green expanse.

  His mind flashed back to a green forest hugging a small village in the DRC. Zeb had been to Luvungi on a mission to identify rogue mercenaries in the DRC, and the mission had resulted in his witnessing a most brutal mass rape and murder carried out by a few mercenaries and rebel soldiers.

  He had hunted the mercenaries down. They no longer existed. It was the same mission in which he had nearly lost his life.

  Broker read Zeb’s mind, honked furiously at a tourist, and brought Zeb back to the present.

  ‘Lester became an outlaw and his protests became frequently violent; this was during the time of Mobutu. Robert and Lester remained friends, but became distant. Robert understood his friend’s thinking but didn’t support violent protest.’

  ‘One night, Robert was alone in his school, when he heard the sound of shots and he heard running. Lester crashed into his room, bleeding profusely. Robert turned out the light, helped him in, shut the door, and walked out to greet the police. He was well respected in the village and they believed him when he said no one had come his way.’

  ‘Robert and his wife Mary hid Lester for a week, looked after him till he healed and one day Lester disappeared. Bwana wasn’t born then.’

  ‘He reappeared ten years later, sporting an American accent. He had escaped to the U.S., had made New York his home and was running a convenience store. He came to their home in Luvungi, played with three-year-old Bwana and urged them to migrate to the U.S. Mary Kayembe was American, from Tennessee. She was an aid worker with a charity in the Congo, which is how she met Robert and made Luvungi her home.’

  ‘Bwana was an intelligent kid.’ Broker stopped himself and grinned. ‘Heck, Bear and he are Mensa members, but don’t ever let them know I’m amazed at their brains.’

  He resumed his story. ‘It didn’t take long for Lester to convince the young parents. The country was in strife and presented no reliable future for a young child. Lester funded their travel and they began a new life in Shelby County.’

  He fell silent as he navigated through thick traffic.

  Zeb knew all about the strength of the bonds between men. His life was defined by such relationships.

  ‘Lester’s story in New York was the archetypal immigrant’s story. Hard work, lot of smarts and he ended up owning the convenience store he worked in, as well as the apartment upstairs. He had some relationships, none lasted and the last was with a nurse, Shaniya Jones, at Brooklyn Hospital Center. It lasted five months, didn’t end well, Lester wasn’t willing to commit. What he didn’t know was Shaniya was pregnant with his daughter, Alisha Jones, when they broke up.’

  ‘Shaniya never told him about his daughter, brought her up by herself. Lester found out about her by accident, he was listed as the father in the birth record and a letter from the hospital got addressed to him by mistake. Shaniya passed away four years back. She was in desperate need of a lung and heart transplant, but never got the organs in time.’

  Broker shook his head. ‘That poor kid watched her mom die slowly. And now this.’

  He stopped his narration as he neared One Police Plaza, the headquarters of the NYPD, and after being directed to a parking slot, they made their way up silently.

  Commissioner Rolando, in dress uniform, greeted them in his office with a strong hug.

  ‘Joe,’ he greeted Broker warmly.

  Six people on the planet knew Broker’s real name. Rolando was one of them.

  ‘What’s your interest in Lester Benjamin?’

  Zeb told him.

  Rolando looked at the two of them keenly. He knew their capabilities. ‘You’re going to investigate this on your own? You know my official position. You cannot obstruct our investigation and all that.’ He smiled to take the sting out of his words.

  ‘Bruce, as far as we know this was a random killing. His murder didn’t make the front pages, but it got coverage because of Central Park. I couldn’t find anything more than the bland statements your guys put out.’ Broker waved away the Commissioner’s comments. No offense was meant, none was taken.

  Rolando laughed. ‘Joe, you didn’t hack into my systems? That must be a first for you!’

  Broker grinned in return. Zeb and his team held some of the highest security clearances and yet there were times Broker ‘wandered’ into secure systems.

  He had some of the best hackers in the world on his payroll, based in Ukraine and Serbia, and he also had intelligence analysts based all over the world. In addition, he had Werner.

  Werner was Broker’s pride and joy. It was a highly sophisticated software program that scanned news, internet chatter, and correlated those with political, social, and military developments across the world. It read the reports that Broker’s analysts fed in and spat out multilayered analyses that Broker sent out to his clients.

  The hackers – they were for those missions where it took too long to get intel or it was squirreled away in closed systems.

  ‘Not this time, Bruce. I thought we’d first hear from you what the NYPD had.’

  The Commissioner opened a manila folder on his desk and pushed across a few photographs at them.

  Broker looked at them and a grimace of distaste passed his face. Lester’s face was unrecognizable. It had been smashed with brutal blows.

  ‘This brutality didn’t make the news. All that was reported was a man found dead.’

  ‘We didn’t release all the details. We just mentioned that he was killed with a baseball bat. The first blow was from behind, to his right, and was on his right temple. It brought him down. The killer then stood over him and crushed his face.’

  Zeb looked at the photographs. ‘Isn’t there some theory that if such violence is used, it must be personal?’

  Rolando shrugged. ‘It has been proven wrong many times. We are looking into his past, but so far it looks like he led a clean life. No enemies. A few friends, none of them particularly close. His store was his world.’

  Zeb saw something in the Commissioner’s eyes. ‘What aren’t you telling us?’

  Rolando sighed and leaned back. ‘We think we have a serial killer.’

  ‘Whoa,’ Broker breathed out softly and made an ‘explain’ gesture to Rolando.

  ‘We’ve kept this very close; the press hasn’t got a scent of it. We have seven victims in a span of four months, all in Brooklyn and Manhattan.’

  He pushed the whole manila folder at them and let them browse in silence.

  The folder had crime shots and details of all the victims, starting with the m
ost recent. Lester Benjamin looked up at them through the blood and gore surrounding his head. The second victim was a Hispanic restaurant worker. His face had been smashed with something hard. The third one was a college student, his face similarly disfigured.

  The silence deepened as they took in the rage that was evidently wreaked on the victims.

  Zeb tapped the folder. ‘Other than the viciousness, what’s the link between these victims? Why have you assumed it’s a serial killer?’

  ‘The victims are all male, of varying ages, and all were killed in those two boroughs. The M.O has remained consistently the same except for the first kill. The first person was strangled, but all the others have been killed with a baseball bat. The attacks are all on the victims’ faces. There are some blows that have gone to the body, but the killing blows have all been to the face. In addition, all the killings are random.’

  He held a finger up on his hand. ‘Random not in the sense that our killer spotted someone, spotted an opportunity and committed the crime. In fact, we believe the killer identified a victim first, studied his or her pattern and then picked an opportunity to kill. The randomness comes from the fact there is no apparent link between the victims, other than their being male. All the victims led clean lives; none of them were involved in any criminal activity or had any kind of criminal record. Heck, a couple of them didn’t even have driving offenses since they never drove.’

  He ran a hand through his graying hair. ‘Our experts, psychiatrists, and all those folks debated this at length before coming up with the serial killer angle.’

  He pushed the photographs back in the envelopes. ‘He probably has parental issues or issues with authority. He’s probably in his late twenties or early thirties, was an only child, and was abused both sexually and physically when growing up. One of our experts strongly believes that he was brought up by a single parent, a father, since all the victims are male.’

  ‘All of them were killed when they were alone, no witnesses, in places where there were no security cameras. Nothing from the killer was found at the crime scenes. The forensic guys say he’s of average height, right handed and probability points to him being white.’

  ‘The first victim was strangled. Not the usual M.O.’

  Rolando nodded. ‘Yeah. We debated that at length, but we have added him to the killer’s victims. That killing was totally random. There wasn’t any motive. The victim was a harmless drunk well known in his neighborhood. We think he was the killer’s first victim. He used what was at hand, maybe his shoe lace.’

  ‘So why have you kept this quiet?’

  ‘The killings are public knowledge. We have even mentioned the bat as a weapon. We haven’t declared that a serial killer is at large since I am concerned about causing a panic. So far the media hasn’t put together the killings and broken the story. But I have to say, pressure is mounting on me internally to go public.’ Rolando admitted.

  ‘Any leads?’ Zeb asked, knowing what the answer was.

  The Commissioner barked a humorless laugh. ‘If we had any, we wouldn’t be where we are. Fact is, most serial killers are caught because they get careless. So far our guy has been good.’

  ‘Who’s in charge of the investigation?’

  Rolando smiled with genuine humor for the first time. ‘Broker’s good friends, Pizaka and Chang.’

  Broker snorted, he knew them well. He had come across them in a previous mission. They were good investigators, perhaps a little too rule-bound for his liking.

  ‘They’re giving these cases as much as they can, but I think you know, we’re all distracted at the moment.’

  Zeb nodded. Three weeks back, an unknown gunman had walked up to a patrol car parked near the curb in Downtown Manhattan and had shot the two cops inside. Bam, Bam. Just like that. The same gunman had crossed three blocks and had shot two more cops in another cruiser.

  The brutal slayings had rallied the citizenry behind the cops - the NYPD was a much loved institution - who had launched a massive manhunt for the killer. The media kept the story alive with hourly coverage even though there wasn’t much to add. Hotlines were flooded with calls of sightings every day. Several New Yorkers had turned vigilante and had performed citizens’ arrests, the cops were chasing every lead, all resources thrown at finding the perp. The gunman remained elusive

  Four of their own. I know how they must be feeling.

  They left an hour later after learning nothing new, with a promise to not get in the way.

  ‘Broker,’ Rolando called out as they were leaving. ‘Don’t forget to share.’

  He knew they would dig away on their own.

  An hour later, Broker slid behind the wheel of his SUV. ‘Nothing much we can do here. It was sheer random chance that the killer targeted Lester. I’m sure the cops will get him sooner or later, if he continues. I’ll brief Bwana.’

  Zeb watched the traffic melt soundless around them. Broker’s vehicles were specially equipped with bulletproof glass, armor plating, run flat tires, and all kinds of fancy gadgets.

  ‘Let’s look into Lester in any case and talk to his daughter.’

  ‘Lester was the gentlest man I ever met.’ Joe huffed as he stacked cardboard cartons at the rear of the store. Zeb and Broker hung around inside, Zeb looked at nothing in particular, Broker tried on a deodorant. He had to smell fresh for the ladies.

  They had arrived early the next day to talk to the two young men running the store. Joe and Emilio had refused to speak to them till they mentioned Robert Kayembe’s name and then they had opened up.

  ‘He started working in this store many years ago, maybe ever since he came from the Congo. The then owner was a widower and didn’t have any heirs. Lester worked hard and when the owner became old, he left the store to Lester.’

  ‘You know this how?’ Zeb asked him mildly.

  Joe wiped sweat with a towel hung around his neck. ‘Heck, the whole neighborhood knows the story. Old Man Skinner was proud of Lester. He said Lester was an example to other African Americans, to everyone. Lester repaid his generosity by continuing to run the store. He could’ve sold it to developers and made a fortune.’

  Emilio shut the counter and pointed up. ‘The apartment above, that Lester bought on his own. He had some money when he came, he invested it, saved, worked all day and sometimes all night, took a mortgage when the apartment was available for sale.’ He shook his head in admiration.

  A customer came in and the two broke off to attend to her.

  ‘What happens to this place now?’ Zeb asked them when they were free.

  Joe shrugged. ‘His daughter gets everything. She came yesterday and said the store would continue.’

  He cracked a smile. ‘I don’t think it has sunk into her yet. Till a few days back she didn’t even know Lester was her dad.’

  Alisha Jones didn’t return Zeb’s calls.

  It was the evening of the visit to the store, Zeb was back in his apartment on 77th Street in Jackson Heights. It was a two-bedroom apartment for a single person who didn’t have many possessions.

  The walls were bare, a television that never got turned on stood in a corner and gathered dust. An expensive sound system blinked a red light, it got played more often.

  There was a single couch and a center table and a couple of scattered chairs. Books were piled on the table.

  ‘Hermits have better homes,’ Broker often grumbled when he visited Zeb.

  Zeb warmed a bowl of Thai rice, settled down next to the window that looked out on the street below and watched life go by. He washed up an hour later and when he opened his closet to change, a shine caught his eye.

  His hand hesitated and then it reached out.

  It was a brass case, a medal case, a hexagon-shaped medallion gleamed softly when opened it. It was a Military Merit Medal bestowed on him by the Democratic Republic of Congo for their actions in hunting down the rogue mercenaries who had perpetrated the mass rape and murder in Luvungi.

  It had b
een presented to him when he’d returned back from the dead.

  Jimmy Atoki, the Permanent Representative of the DRC in the United Nations, had placed it around his neck in a simple ceremony that had only Broker as a witness. Broker had received the same honor as well.

  Atoki was a Zande warrior and though he was garbed in western wear, his bearing showed. He smiled at them and the sun split his face. ‘Next time, Zeb, you don’t need to die to get medals from us.’ He turned serious and looked at both of them deeply.

  ‘Thank you.’ He said simply.

  Zeb put the case back, next to another case that had a photograph in it.

  Zeb never looked at that photograph. He never would.

  He turned his mind to the present, to Lester. Lester might have died randomly at the hands of a serial killer. But Zeb would satisfy himself of that before he let it go.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Lester Benjamin didn’t exist for me, till he died.’

  Alisha Jones impatiently brushed her hair back as she addressed Zeb.

  They were not far from where Lester had been killed. Despite that brutal murder, Alisha hadn’t changed her jogging route making it easy for Zeb to stand in her way as she approached him.

  He had left several messages on her voicemail and when she hadn’t returned his calls, had decided to go the direct route.

  Alisha had left New York University, NYU, with a Bachelor of Science, worked in a global consulting firm for five years before joining Columbia Business School, CBS, to pursue a master’s degree.

  ‘She’s smart, very smart,’ Broker commented as he leaned over Zeb’s shoulder and skimmed her details. ‘She was in the top percentile of the GPA rankings at NYU, and is killing it at CBS. She got loads of grant funding, worked her ass off, and by all accounts is a future business leader.’

  ‘Nothing there,’ he said finally after he’d finished reading. ‘No connection to Lester; nothing remotely shady in her life.’

  Zeb nodded. He’d reached the same conclusion, but they still had to go through the motions.