Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense

by Carter Wilson

  “When he was twelve.”

  “He was sexually abused, starved, and beaten for two months. His ear nearly cut off and crudely stitched back on. All of that comes from the doctors who examined him, because he never spoke about it to anyone, except that one time to his sister.”

  “Who told us about the Preacherman.”

  Anne nodded. “The Preacherman. Thomas Wilcott. He’s the one who raped the boy while probably spewing quotes of hellfire and damnation at him at the same time. You add an experience like that to a boy who is already showing autistic characteristics, and it’s a recipe for a serial killer. It’s likely Rudiger was the one who killed him, and even cut off his ear as an acknowledgement of what Wilcott did to him. Imagine killing someone so brutally when you’re just twelve. Think about what kind of impact that would have had on Rudiger.”

  “Rudiger? You on a first-name basis?”

  “The task force refers to it as the Rudiger Case. He has so many last names it keeps things easier.” She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Rose mentioned Rudiger liked to talk about the Rapture. The Second Coming. In his mind, maybe he thinks that by crucifying people he is helping the Rapture to come about. He has also shown that he likes rituals, which is another trait of Asperger’s.”

  “Rituals?”

  “His crucifixions are meticulous, all the way down to the burials. The patterns he’s shown in his past killings reveal an increasing level of detail.”

  Jonas thought about that. “As if the first couple were just practice rounds?”

  She nodded. “We think he’s getting ready for his grand finale.”

  “In Denver?”

  A shrug. “Perhaps.”

  “What’s he looking for? I mean...why is he killing at all? He’s just a Jesus freak who wants to bring about the Second Coming?”

  “There is no official theory. Just a bunch of speculation from a lot of smart people.”

  “What piece of speculation do you ascribe to?”

  She remained quiet for a few moments as Jonas sipped his espresso, which had already cooled.

  “I have a friend on the task force. David Preiss. Smart as hell. He was brought on because of his background in world religion. Does a lot of work on religious hate crimes.”

  “And he has a theory?”

  Anne nodded. “Look, we know Rudiger is obsessed with the teachings of Christianity, ever since his abduction. Probably developed an obsession with it as a defense mechanism against what had happened to him. He escaped inside himself. He probably clung to this obsession through the years that followed in order to quiet down some of the other thoughts that were probably starting to formulate in his young mind.”

  “Dark thoughts,” Jonas added.

  “Very dark. Religion was an outlet for him. Could have been anything. Could have been baseball cards, for all that any of it matters. The important thing is the dark thoughts got stronger, and eventually won out.”

  Jonas watched as a mother and her child strolled hand in hand along the sidewalk. The little boy pulled at her fingers and laughed as they walked.

  “So he joined the Army,” she continued. “Maybe he hoped that sanctioned violent conflict would fulfill his needs. He was likely hoping to find any kind of distraction to keep his thoughts away from homicide, because back then he still probably knew the difference between right and wrong. And he was successful for a while.”

  “And then there was Somalia,” Jonas said. “Why do you think he did what he did?”

  Anne shook her head. “Hard to say. Your first-person account is the only one we have of that day. We’ve been able to track down other members of his unit, and most describe him as a loner, but pleasant enough. He always obeyed orders, and if he wasn’t the most social solider out there, he certainly didn’t cause any trouble.”

  “Until he killed an entire family,” Jonas added.

  “Could have been the stress of being under attack by the sniper. Maybe when he saw the other soldiers being killed Rudiger was overcome with bloodlust. The best guess from FBI psychologists is that he just snapped.”

  “Snapped? That’s the diagnosis?”

  “Most likely he had a psychotic break, where he finally and totally disconnected from reality. He found himself suddenly free to act on the impulses that had been brewing beneath the surface for years.” She dipped her fingertip in the remnants of sugar and espresso and touched it to her lips.

  Jonas thought about that for a moment. “So he killed that family out of bloodlust?”

  Anne shrugged. “There are a lot of reasons why serial killers do what they do, but most of them are convinced what they’re doing is right. That’s important to remember. Rudiger seems to fit the category of a visionary killer, someone who feels compelled to kill by entities like God or the devil. Rudiger seems to be a God-mandated visionary killer.”

  “I remember him saying he read some sign. Must have been in Somalia. He said it was a message.” Jonas struggled to reconcile any of this with the image of the baby’s headless body on the floor of the Mogadishu apartment.

  “That goes along with what Rose told us about his ability.”

  “How the hell could he believe God wanted him to brutally kill an innocent family?”

  “I didn’t say it made sense, Jonas. That’s the whole point of psychotic breaks—it’s a complete detachment from reality.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It could have been a test,” she said. “Some on the task force think he believes God commanded him to kill the family as a test to see if he could do what he was later called upon to do.”

  “You mean the crucifixions?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But...he lived for years, with yet another new name, without killing anyone after that.”

  “Not that we know of. Most likely, that’s not the case. He probably remained quiet for a long time. He somehow walked away from both the bullet wound you gave him and the grenade explosion undetected. Probably received help from some Somalis. He then got himself home from Somalia without detection by the military. Best we can tell he worked a series of manual-labor jobs and saved up his money, staying out of trouble the whole time. As he became more comfortable with his freedom, his darker side would have come out. Maybe he killed sometime during this period, but it might have not been an organized, ritualistic killing. It might not have had focus, which is why there’s nothing tying him to any unsolved murders.”

  Jonas stood and stretched his legs. “And then came

  Jerusalem.”

  Anne also stood. “If Somalia was his mental awakening as a killer, then Jerusalem was his spiritual one. Jerusalem gave him the focus he needed to make his bloodlust justifiable, if only to himself. We found records of his travel. He had an episode there.”

  “Episode?”

  Anne explained what the medical report on Rudiger detailed about his outburst at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

  “Holy shit.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “So he comes back home and starts crucifying people because that’s what God told him to do?”

  “Basically.”

  “What does God want from it all?”

  “That’s a little out of my league.”

  They started walking back to the car. A small breeze wafted down the narrow pedestrian walkway. Jonas turned his head in small degrees, searching for any paparazzi, seeing none.

  “Rudiger is recreating Jesus’s crucifixion,” Anne said. “Down to the burial in a tomb. None of the victims are related. Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember what Rose said about Rudiger’s ability?”

  “The rearranging of letters in his head?”

  “Yeah. Well, there are geeks at the FBI who live for that kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Figuring out what kind of anagrams may have set Rudiger off. Like Michael Calloway’s persona
l ad on the website? It was an anagram for “Holy blood enter.”

  “And you think that was a clue to Rudiger? He was supposed to crucify whoever wrote that ad? And it just happened to be Michael Calloway?”

  Anne shrugged. “That’s a theory. We think he’s looking for someone specific to kill and he hasn’t found him—or her—yet. We think he’s getting clues from ads, billboards, bumper stickers...anything that can be rearranged to form clues. And that college kid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He had written an article in the campus newspaper. The title was an almost-perfect anagram for “bring me reveal Christ.”

  “Damn, that’s creepy. How’d the FBI figure that out? “Just running anything they could find about the vic through their computers.”

  “What about the ears?”

  “Trophies. Common among serial killers. Reflects his own mortality. His own wounds. What the Preacherman did to him. And it’s very Old Testament. Eye for an eye, and all that.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?” Anne stopped and kissed him. Jonas looked at her. “Why did he attack me?”

  Her face tightened—only a little, but enough for Jonas to notice.

  “A man was killed on the side of a Virginia highway,” she said, pulling back. “Shot to death—road rage incident, most likely. No witnesses to the crime itself, but someone driving by reported to the police a man fitting Rudiger’s description standing next to the vic’s pickup—no sign of the vic. When police found the pickup, the vic was in the bed of the truck, covered by a tarp. In the cab of the truck was a Soldier of Fortune magazine. The cover story was about the Rangers.”

  “You think Rudiger killed him?”

  “Might have been a wrong place-wrong time kind of thing. But maybe after Rudiger killed the driver, he saw the cover of the magazine and took it as a clue to go find you. He attacked you just a couple of days later, so the timeline fits.”

  “You think he was trying to crucify me?”

  Anne tilted her head as she continued walking. Her face wore traces of a smirk. “You ever think in your life you’d be asking that question?”

  “No. At least not literally.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I doubt it, but maybe. You’reconnected to him and that connection means something. You might be a target. You might just be a clue to him.”

  He could sense her starting to pull back from the conversation, and he knew he wouldn’t get much more from her. “So then you do think I’m still a potential target.” It wasn’t a question.

  She stopped and stared ahead for a few moments, as if trying to figure out what kind of face to wear when she turned to look at him.

  It was a vulnerable face. “Yes. That’s possible.”

  The answer didn’t upset Jonas as much surprise him. “So what’s taking him so long?”

  “The significance of the Peace Accords is huge,” she said. “It’s about the Holy Land. Rudiger might use the Accords for his next killing to make a statement. Plus he knows you’ll be there.”

  “So I’m bait.”

  “No, Jonas. It’s just a theory. And trust me, you might think you’re vulnerable, but you’ll have extra eyes watching you the whole time in Denver.”

  “There’ll be a protective detail on me?”

  “If we get any kind of alert, yes.”

  He wasn’t sure how much he liked that. “Wow, I’m special.”

  She reached out and touched his forearm. “You were with him at his awakening. Yes, Jonas, you are special to him. Maybe you’re the one he’s been searching for all along.” She let out a small laugh, as if she realized she just made her boyfriend and a serial killer sound like lovers.

  Jonas squeezed her fingers and pulled her along as they walked back to his car.

  “If you want to tie me up and make me scream out God’s name, that’s one thing,” he said. “But I don’t think I want him doing it.”

  37

  LESS THAN twelve hours remained until Jonas had to get on a flight to Denver, and he now realized there was no way in hell he was going to finish everything he had to do. His office was awash in clutter; despite the Senator’s best green initiatives, paper was stacked in enough bricks around Jonas’s desk to make any single page within them virtually meaningless.

  V walked into his office.

  “What are you still doing here?” she asked. “Staring at things and doing nothing.”

  She looked around. “Good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “I know. So should you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I plan on sleeping in the office every day you all are away. It’s like an extra paid vacation.”

  “Way to be a team player.”

  She arched her eyebrow. “Way to invite me to Denver.” He groaned. “It wasn’t my decision.”

  She let out a sing-song voice. “You all have to understand that a pretty girl like me can get a lot more accomplished at any negotiation involving men than crusty old politicians can.” She raised her skirt and flashed some thigh at him.

  “Please tell me you’re only pretending to be this stupid.” She dropped her skirt. “Wow, boss, when did you stop being fun?”

  He considered her question seriously. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But it was definitely sometime before I turned thirty.” She leaned over across his desk, resting her palms on two stacks of paper. “Go home. Now.”

  Jonas rubbed his eyes and stood. “You’re right. Thanks,

  V.”

  She turned and left the office. “Good luck in Denver, boss.”

  He grabbed his briefcase and plane tickets and turned the light off in his office on the way out.

  Luck, he thought. If only it were that easy.

  • • •

  It was close to midnight when he pulled into the parking lot of the Jefferson Memory Care Residence. The parking lot was silent, and only his own scuffled footsteps along the cracked asphalt indicated life. Dead of night.

  He hadn’t been able to sleep. Too much on his mind. Normally he would have convinced himself that staying in bed without sleeping was at least some kind of rest, but not tonight. Tonight was different, because out of the millions of nighttime thoughts and images racing through his mind, one seized him and wouldn’t let go.

  He wondered what his father was doing at that exact moment, and the image haunted him.

  He pictured him in his bed (or maybe someone else’s, since the residents all wandered). He pictured a dark room and a scratchy blanket covering dry and withered skin. He pictured the Captain sleeping fitfully, his mind unable to dream when asleep and unable to see reality when awake. His father was trapped in a dark and haunting loneliness, and Jonas decided he wanted nothing more than to spend some time with his dad before leaving for Denver.

  Fuck sleep, Jonas thought. I can sleep next month.

  He walked through the double doors and signed in at the unattended reception desk. The daily visitation log showed the last visitor to the facility signed in over four hours earlier. No one came to visit in the middle of the night.

  He suddenly wished for Anne. That she would sit with him, next to his father. But Jonas had only briefly mentioned his father’s condition to her, because as close as he and Anne had become, some things he held close to the vest. Someday, maybe.

  He walked down the corridor and keyed in the code to open the first set of doors. The fluorescent lights buzzed above him as he passed through the wing on the way to the Captain’s unit. The nurse’s station at the end of the corridor was unattended and all of the resident doors were closed. His shoes squeaked on the faded linoleum floors.

  Antiseptic fumes wafted past him.

  At the far end of the corridor a resident’s door creaked open, and Jonas reflexively slowed. No one came out, and Jonas kept walking. He expected to see a nurse come out after checking on someone, but the door had merely opened a few inches and then r
emained that way.

  The overhead lights seemed to buzz louder, like a swarm of insects slowly getting closer. The nurse’s station remained empty, but a crackling radio somewhere nearby was the first sign of life he’d heard.

  As he passed the open door, Jonas shifted his eyes and looked inside the room. He saw only darkness, but a voice whispered to him from within.

  “Come here.”

  Jonas couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female, only that it was old and tired.

  He stopped and looked into the darkness.

  The door opened a few more inches and the light from the hallway illuminated the face of an old black man peering from around the edge.

  “You got business here?”

  Jonas thought the man must be at least ninety but knew dementia could age someone a decade or more. Dark, leathery jowls hung like sacks off the side of his face, as if years of obesity had rapidly succumbed to the disease’s appetite for flesh. Patches of wispy, curled hair seemed glued to his scalp; his sunken eyes belied both mischief and fear.

  “I’m visiting my father,” Jonas replied in a whisper.

  “Your daddy in here?” The man’s voice was sandpaper. “He’s in the north unit.”

  “Ooh.” The man’s eyes widened and he looked like he was either going to laugh or scream. “That’s the bad place.”

  Jonas turned more fully toward the man. “Why do you say that?”

  The old man smiled, his yellow teeth large and obscene. “Because everywhere in here the bad place.” He let himself laugh though the act of it seemed to pain him. “It’s all bad, boy. All bad.” Then the smile disappeared from his face and his eyes widened. A naked, bony arm reached out from behind the door.

  “I don’t know where I am,” the man said.

  It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.

  “I’m sorry,” Jonas said. He reached out and let the man grab his fingertips, something he never would have seen himself doing before the Captain took up residence at Jefferson. But he learned a lot about Alzheimer’s, and one thing was clear: despite how much of a person’s mind had been eaten away by the disease, they still responded to human touch. It was something they needed, sure as they needed food and water. Maybe needed it more.