by Mic Palmer
“I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to interview the killer,” mused the journalist, as he listened to the young zoologist.
“Indigenous to the Southeast United States, Micrurus fulvius, sometimes known as the American Cobra or the eastern coral snake, can only be purchased in a few states, and New York’s not one of them.”
Although bored and not at all convinced that the specimen could be traced, America’s third most popular news anchor tried to make the best of it. “Then this may very well turn out to be a crucial piece of evidence,” he commented.
“Definitely,” said the reptile expert, his long brown hair conspicuously jelled into a form presentable for television. “Then again who’s to say he didn’t just order it off the internet.”
“Enough of this,” blurted the bartender, as he changed the channel, in search of a specific sport’s score, but mostly what he found were questionable images of a long-dead queen.
If she had planned it herself, Cleopatra couldn’t have staged a better comeback. She was everywhere and everything – a sociopath, a seductress, beautiful, ugly, weak, strong, black, white, you name it; the funny part was that this was exactly how she would have wanted it.
“She has become all things to all people,” went on a rather elderly but distinguished historian, on a different station. “The ancient sources, however, are a bit more restrictive. What they actually tell us is that she was the conniving descendant of one of Alexander the Great’s generals and therefore a Greek, but what first brought her to the attention of the world were her attempts to enlist support of Julius Caesar in her war against her brother, Ptolemy VIII. Having forced Cleopatra into exile, Ptolemy thought he could win the favor of Caesar by having his rival, Pompey the Great, beheaded, but the move actually had the opposite effect. What Ptolemy didn’t realize was that Pompey was married to Caesar’s daughter. Even more important, however, was the fact that he was a Roman, meaning that he was only to be dealt with by Romans. Ptolemy, therefore, had miscalculated and as a result Cleopatra was made sole ruler. More than that, however, she became Caesar’s lover and before long gave birth to what she claimed was his child.”
“She seems to have had Caesar wrapped around her little finger,” offered Betsy Tanner, Bill Butler’s younger and more shapely rival. “Why don’t you tell the viewers how they met.”
“Certainly,” responded the expert, as he fiddled with his ear piece. “According to Plutarch, one of the main ancient sources on the matter, Cleopatra was quite naturally anxious to take advantage of Caesar’s rift with her brother. Unfortunately, she was unable to see him, but like I said, she was crafty. So what she did was have herself smuggled into Caesar’s palace within a Persian carpet. The rest, as they say, is history. When Caesar unrolled the carpet, he was immediately beguiled. For as you know, Cleopatra has come down through the ages as one of the world’s great beauties. The coins and statuary from the period, however, would seem to tell a different story.”
Having recently been promoted from a morning talk show host to a news anchor, the green eyed reporter still had a habit of couching her comments in a perky, get you out of the door, sort of way, which some may have found inappropriate, especially when discussing a serial killer. Nevertheless, she was immensely popular – a fact that drove her more experienced competitor absolutely crazy.
Patting her short, silky, blond hair, Bill Butler’s more affable colleague noted, “I’ve done some crazy things to meet a man, but that carpet stunt takes the cake.”
Tanner’s husky voice, measured delivery, and flawless enunciation made comments like these seem somewhat less superfluous than one would initially suspect. Nevertheless, her producer gave her the cut signal, to which she responded like the pro that she was.
“Not to make light of course of the underlying tragedy here. Naturally, the families of the victims truly have my heartfelt sympathies. Unfortunately, Cleopatra has become part of the story, and as journalists we need to explore the ways in which her life might play into the killer’s psyche. Now doctor, before we break, let’s try and discuss if you will the real Cleopatra; what did she look like, and how did she manage to win over all of those extremely powerful men?”
The professor cleared his throat and corrected his bow tie with tremulous fingers. “While some say the actual depictions of her were more ceremonial than representative, others claim that she herself probably commissioned the objects and therefore had a hand in the way she was portrayed. Even so, she is hardly idealized. As a matter of fact, she’s often shown with a nose that’s both long and hooked. Then again the Egyptians not to mention other cultures may have taken this as a sign of beauty, if not sensuality.”
“You hear that, ladies?” Tanner commented, with a nose the size of a button. “Lay off the surgery. You don’t need it.”
“The French, for instance,” carried on the professor, not quite knowing how to respond, “used to love Cleopatra’s nose; if you’ll recall, Pascal famously said that had it been an inch shorter the whole face of the world would have been different. For Plutarch, however, who wrote of the Queen about a hundred and thirty years after her death, she was charming and intelligent, but not particularly attractive; nevertheless, what’s undeniable is that she managed to bewitch some of the most important men of her time. Whether this was more due to her brilliance or personality rather than her looks will remain a question for the ages.”
“This just in,” announced Tanner, as if speaking directly to Jack. Based on the spread of the venom, the police are estimating that the attack must have occurred within 4-6 hours ago. If you were in the area at that time, please contact the police at 1-877-*26-2515.”
Jack was crushed. He really thought he had caught a break this time, but again, he was without an alibi.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The cappuccino machine chocked and gurgled while customers bided their time gossiping, reading and texting. When the froth finally came, it was thin and poorly distributed, causing the attendant to beat at it until he worked up a good lather.
Locating a booth in the back, Jack felt oddly secure, even comfortable. Never a believer in feng shui, he had nevertheless found his spot.
Having moved from Union Square to the bowery, he needed a place to do some research, without calling attention to himself, and unlike most internet cafes, where people are jammed next to one another, this particular spot offered some degree of privacy.
“Large coffee with skim milk,” he told the waitress, as he examined his temporary headquarters.
The place was dimly lit, with a long counter and old fashioned diner stools, complete with chrome pedestals and revolving red vinyl seats, polished to a high sheen. A large copper duct ran across the ceiling over about a dozen upholstered booths, each with a computer and monitor. The heat from the conduit could be felt on Jack’s face; in fact he could smell it, the result of which was not unlike the warm comfy feel he used to experience around the radiators he had grown up with. Had it not been for the fact that he was about to be identified as the prime suspect in a string of murders, he would have been quite content to while away the day there over a newspaper and coffee.
As a result, he took special pains to look the place over. For this was just the sort of environment that might lull him into a false sense of security. Fortunately, the clientele appeared completely estranged from reality. As a matter of fact someone could have robbed the place at gun point and most of them probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
Jack, therefore, got on line and called up as many shots of the crime scenes as he could find, after which he stored them on the flash drive on his key chain.
Despite his recent lapses, he was intent upon finding something the police had missed. “Hell, it was worth a shot,” he told himself, but he’d have to be systematic, methodical – words normally not in his vocabulary.
“let’s see,” he ruminated. There had been three murders of relatively young women, only one of which involved strangulation,
but as the media experts had said, that could probably be explained by the appearance of a witness or some other factor that forced him to take off.
As to the locations, there didn’t seem to be a pattern. The first body was found in Williamsburg, the second on the lower east side, not far from where he was living, and the third in Forest Hills.
The only thing it seemed they had in common was the fact that they were rolled up in carpets, which indeed may have been intended as some sort of reference to the once great queen, but even if the psychiatrist was right and this guy had it in for women, how would that help Jack get any closer to figuring out who did it?
“Maybe the carpets,” he thought. There was just something about them that didn’t sit right with him, but not being able to put his finger on it, he decided to perform a little research, and after about four hours of looking at hundreds of forms and patterns, from everywhere from Kashgar to Portland, he came to the conclusion that his instincts had proven correct.
Had he known how easy it was to distinguish a Persian carpet from other types, he would have looked into the matter years earlier, when he was handling an insurance fraud case involving just this issue.
Having insured his Persians for tens of thousands of dollars, the owner claimed to have lost them in a fire. From the remaining scraps, however, the experts came to the conclusion that what was actually destroyed were probably mere imitations; unfortunately their samples were too charred to make out a definitive case.
Jack, therefore, decided to check out the family, including the claimant’s mother in law, who during a rain storm chose to park her car on the street – despite possessing an attached two car garage.
“Bingo,” Jack whispered, recalling that all too distant moment of revelation, but that was a long time ago, and whatever credit he had earned was quickly wiped out by a long string of ignominious blunders – not the least of which the one that got him canned.
Was it possible that rugs might again play a role in his fortunes?
“Why not?” he mused. “That’s how things happen – in clumps.”
Feeling he had done as much as he could with cyberspace, he decided to check out a few retailers, but first he’d have to pay his tab. “Check please,” he uttered, having observed the Chinese waitress pick a penny from the floor.
The server stared at the coin with an expression of reverence. “Did you see that?” she asked him, appearing entranced.
“What?”
Although lidless, her eyes were wide, with thick lashes and shiny black irises that reflected the light from the computer. “I found a penny; That’s the third one this week.”
“She’s pretty,” Jack thought to himself. “Congratulations; You want me to leave your tip in small change.”
“No,” she smiled, as she put down the check. “That wouldn’t count.”
“Count how?”
“Every time I find a penny, that’s my father saying hello.”
“Really,” replied Jack, assuming that her father must have passed away. “What about nickels and dimes?”
Her expression was earnest – not a hint of whimsy. “No just pennies,” she answered, not feeling any further explanation was necessary.
“And you know this how?”
Tall for a woman, she appeared to think this was a silly question. “Cause I find them all the time. You think that’s a coincidence? I don’t find dimes and quarters – just pennies.”
“That’s because people don’t bother to pick them up,” Jack was about to say, but why argue?
“Well have a nice day,” she concluded, her eyes already scanning the floor.
“Thanks,” said Jack, somewhat bewitched, but within moments he was back to business.
After jotting down some addresses, he decided to check out a few retailers, one of which was just a couple of blocks away. As a matter of fact he had passed it on his way to the coffee shop, but owing to its rather esoteric moniker – Planet Pile – he had no idea as to what they sold.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“What a mess,” he thought to himself. Carpets were everywhere – hanging from the ceilings, glued to the walls, lying on pallets, draped over gigantic hangers. In many ways it was exotic, even decadent, like an overcrowded seraglio.
Eventually he made his way to some of the more expensive imports. Having never really taken a good look at a carpet of any sort, he was surprised at how intricate they were, how colorful, how beautifully conceived. At the same time, however, he was a bit taken aback by the fact that up until now he had never noticed, even during the case involving the insurance fraud. How could it be that something so ubiquitous had escaped him?
“Where are the Persians?” he asked the salesman in the purple turtle neck.
Playing with his gold chain, the merchant seemed distracted, as if Jack were wasting his time. Somewhat small in stature, he had dark curly hair, a large bulbous nose, and for a man his size – really for any man – absolutely monstrous hands. Nervously moving when he spoke, they appeared as if he were playing a piano. “Hand woven or synthetics?”
“What’s the difference?”
“About a thousand dollars.”
“I meant in the quality.”
“Oh, you can’t beat the hand loomed – the craftsmanship, the artistry – there’s really no comparison.”
“You can tell by looking at them?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“The appearance, the quality. They’re just nicer.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Alright, let’s see. How can I put this? They’re rougher, darker, less clean, less new looking.”
“So I’m paying a $1,000 more because they look used?”
“I tell you what – why don’t you take a look at them? I guarantee you’ll see a difference, but if you don’t, I’ll show you the synthetics.”
Jack complied, and after several minutes came to the conclusion that the salesman was right – they were nicer, and for just the reasons he had said. More importantly, however, he had confirmed his initial suspicions – namely that only the rugs from the first and third slayings were similar, but unlike the references made to them by the television commentators, they were not Persian.
Their mistake, however, wasn’t that surprising. In the first place, they wanted the rugs to be Persian, as this was the type of carpet used by Cleopatra. In the second, the distinction between Persian carpets and what they really were was not that obvious, especially when no one at this point really cared – no one but Jack that is.
Taking his time, he studied them, broke them down, eventually becoming convinced that they were Moroccan. Charming for their unpretentiousness, they had the quality of studied innocence, which in the hands of a master conveyed the sense that rather than being manufactured they had sprouted, like the fragrant blooms of an orchid. Through their flatness of color and almost vegetative use of simple geometry they appeared integrated, natural, whole, not unlike the works of Matisse – an artist with whom Jack should have been well familiar. Back in Mexico they had spent a solid three days on him, the net result of which was the vague image of a single painting – a rather muted, blotchy, almost woven looking piece entitled, View of the Sea.
“Hmm,” Jack reflected. “Had Matisse been to Morocco?”
Despite having forgotten nearly everything he had learned, he couldn’t help but detect some rather obvious commonalities, not the least of which the subtle tones and organic simplicity.
Persian carpets on the other hand were far more complex, with curvilinear designs and repeating lattices often juxtaposed against intricate yet harmonious floral patterns. Absolutely kaleidoscopic in their conception, the central medallions could branch off into what seemed an infinite number of equally fertile possibilities, and yet like thought itself it all seemed to coalesce into one seamless unity.
“They’re wrong,” Jack reflected. Despite all of the many references to Persian carpets,
the journalists were wrong.
The fact was that the rugs used in the first and third attacks were authentically Moroccan, while the one used in the second was a fake. True, it bore some superficial resemblance to a typical Persian design, but what gave it away was the perfect symmetry, the preternatural straightness of the seams, and the fact that the back was just as flawless as the front. Clearly it was machine made, probably from Turkey, which was why it appeared cleaner than the others, less organic, more sanitized. It lacked warmth, innovation, genius, much like Jack’s own work, and the comparison didn’t escape him. Nevertheless, he may have come up with something the police hadn’t, and this didn’t escape him either.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sticking with seltzer water, Jack spent the evening in yet another sports bar, only this time he didn’t speak with anyone. After a cold salad with just a dash of dressing, he watched for memorable moments, and when he saw one, took a picture, preferably with the television in the background. Then, at about three in the morning he returned to his hotel, wishing that he had downed a few drinks to quiet his raucous mind.
“Where am I going with this?” he ruminated, his rock hard bed making it difficult to get comfortable.
By 7:00 am, he was covered in sweat, bleary eyed, utterly depleted, but he had his answer.
The attacks involving the Moroccan carpets were extremely bloody. The murderer was methodical, perverse, brutal; he took his time, fulfilled some sort of need, enjoyed himself, but the first killing was wholly different. Except for some bruises around the throat, Michelle was left for the most part unmarked. As with Jack the Ripper, on the night of the infamous “double event,” the assault was probably rushed, most likely owing to the need to flee. Perhaps the police were around, a family member, a boy friend. In any event, the killer wasn’t able to complete his fantasy, and so he struck again – this time the way he wanted to.