The Ghost

by H. Berkeley Rourke

  Roman Catholic Arizona was/is one diocese. The archbishop of the diocese resided in Tucson. He called Jim Wilson within fifteen minutes after the edition featuring rape as a protected activity on Scalian hit the streets. Wilson listened to him for about fifteen minutes, taking careful notes of the expletives and the complaints of the monsignor. The prelate was highly upset with the publicity given Scalian in the article. He made it clear as well as threatening loss of revenue from advertising normally given to the newspaper by businesses owned by Catholics.

  Then, after listening for some additional time Jim said to the prelate, "I am going to hang up now Monsignor. I am going to direct your remarks to the investigative Sergeant of Phoenix P.D. Homicide and I advise you to talk to her if you wish. I will not speak with you again. What happened at your university over the course of at least the last year speaks volumes about how much the church cares for students enrolled in its private institutions. Goodbye sir."

  The prelate was even more incensed at Jim hanging up on him. He called the Chief of the Phoenix Police Department. He raised holy (or unholy) hell with the chief. The chief called his major in charge of all the units of the department. He chewed the major's ass for the article appearing. The major, rolling shit downhill, as always, called Captain Will Atherton. The shit stopped there. Will listened to the complaints of the major for all the time the major could take to repeat his criticisms. When the major was almost breathing hard from his diatribe Will asked him, "May I speak now major."

  "Yes, but make it brief. I am busy."

  "Major, five young women are dead in this city. One of them is a cop. Do you want to criticize my tactics in dealing with the deaths of the young women other than the cop? Or do you want to criticize my tactics in dealing with the death of the cop? Since the killer is the same in all those cases, self admitted to the reporter publishing this article by the way, which would you like to criticize?"

  "A cop is dead?"

  "Yes sir. A cop named Rebecca Daniels is dead. I guess the main office didn't get the word that a cop killer was on the loose?"

  "Uh, well, I don't know for sure about her death. What was her name again? Never mind, I will ask the chief. In the meantime, carry on, but try to talk to the priest will you."

  "Yes sir, if I am required to do so I will try more willingly as soon as I catch this serial murderer."

  "Serial murderer? Who said there was a serial murderer working our city?"

  "Apparently you have not been reading your daily reports major. I said it and have been saying it to you now for weeks."

  "Okay, well take care of it Will." This conversation ought to be the end of administrative bullshit, Will thought. The major called the chief and tersely reported what Will said. The chief blustered a little and then finally said well done to the major. So ended the involvement of the chief or the major in any part of the case, at least until an arrest was made. They both knew if they wanted to alienate the entire body of police officers of the Phoenix P.D. and the city council of the City of Phoenix all they had to do was criticize Homicide over its handling of the killing of a cop.

  The day after the article on Scalian there was, on the lead page to the second section, a few column inches devoted to a picture. The picture was grainy and not truly a great shot of the individual. It did show his face clearly enough to identify him. A headline over top of the picture said, "DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?”, and then it gave the homicide number as a contact point. The article did not identify the individual in any way nor categorize him in any way as a suspect, a person of interest, nothing. All it said was do you know him. The picture generated more than twenty calls of which three came from Scalian and all three identified the picture as that of Jefferson Wells III.

  the newspaper spooked him...

  but the picture scared him a lot...

  he had a girl isolated, ready...

  could he still do it...

  was it safe, was he known...

  no, they didn't know him...

  he was the Ghost after all...

  he would do her that night...

  or maybe another night soon...

  damn, he thought, damn, damn...

  how the hell did they find me...

  that reporter, his wife must die...

  his parents had called...

  they would be back tomorrow...

  he would have to do it soon...

  how the hell did they find me...

  what should i do...

  should i run...

  no, he was the Ghost...

  he would not run...

  he would kill, again...

  Chapter 10

  Hi, Mr. Wells

  In one of his afternoon classes a woman came into the classroom. He had not seen her before. She was fairly tall, Latina, dark haired, someone he would love to do. She had a great butt. She had on a badge. He had heard about her being on campus and ripping the campus police. Her name was something like Jeanne. She saw him looking at her. Good. She wanted him to know her, know who she was. She wanted to scare the shit out of him. She wanted him to know his time was done. The class bell rang. She went out the door. As he came out she placed her hand on his arm, held him tightly for a moment while the other students in the class left the immediate vicinity.

  "Hi Mr. Wells," she said. "How are you today?" She was smiling but he could see she didn’t mean to be friendly with him.

  "How do you know my name? Who are you?"

  "Oh I know a lot more than just your name Mr. Ghost Rapist. I know much more than you are aware. Soon you will know everything I do. I just wanted to get acquainted. My name is Sergeant Jeanne de Leon. I am a detective with Phoenix Homicide unit. You, Mr. Ghost Rapist, are a murdering puke son-of-a-whore. Soon, very soon indeed, you piece of dog dung, I am going to come back and arrest you. But then you could make it easy for me. You could try to kill me or make an attempt on another girl here on the campus and allow the police, either of homicide or of the campus police, to simply kill you and rid the earth of you. Please do make it easy for us, won’t you? It would be so much easier to simply scrape the dog shit off our shoes rather than have to arrest you."

  He was silent as she talked. He started to open his mouth and say something as she finished. She put her finger on his mouth and said, "Don't talk to me you piece of shit. Don't talk to any woman in this community. Don't walk in the dark you dog shit. Don't come near any woman in any part of this community. If you do I will be there. If you do I will kill you. Do you understand me clearly? Just nod. I don't want to see the shit flowing from your mouth you fucking blivet."

  She saw a puzzled look on his face for a moment. "Oh you don't know what a blivet is? Of course you don’t. You never have served in the military, have you. And I don’t think anyone who had served in the military would ever befriend a piece of dog shit like you. A blivet, Mr. Ghost Rapist/dog shit is ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. I don't want to watch it leak out of your mouth. You make me sick just looking at you. having you talk would make me want to puke." She had finished. She spun on her heel and walked away rapidly.

  She swung her hips in a very sexual movement as she walked away from him. She looked over her shoulder as she walked.She stopped about ten feet away. She turned and looked at him. He was looking at her butt. It was what she had wanted. She said, "Good, you like it? Come and get it big boy. Let's see how you fare with me."

  He stood there almost panting in heat for her for a moment, with an obvious erection. She looked directly at his crotch, at the swelling there. She said to him, very provocatively, "I hear you have a big tool. Ready to try and use it on me little boy? I also hear you are a quick shooter. The girls all tell me you are no good, just have a big tool. What do you think little boy? Think you might be able to hold onto it for a real woman?" She turned, waiting, he didn't move. She walked out the door swinging her butt as provocatively as she knew how, willing him to watch her butt sway as she walked away. When she got to the end of the hal
l and was going to turn and go out of the building she turned to him and gave him the finger. She said "Fuck you Wells. You are nothing."

  aagh, aagh, god i want to kill...

  oh that bitch, oh god, kill her...

  ooh, god what a butt, kill her...

  but,fuck her first...

  going to kill her, fuck her...

  aagh, he screamed, mentally...

  aagh, he screamed, fuck her...

  kill her, fuck her, kill her...

  She heard him scream, heard him yell at the top of his lungs he was going to kill her. Good. Now we have him. Now the trap is set.Now all we have to do is make it work. She went home, took a long warm shower, ate a snack, didn't really want anything, except she did want one thing. She called Jim Wilson. He was not busy. She invited him over. He spent the night with her.

  He came to her after work. She was freshly showered, had let her long brown hair, normally kept in a pony tail or a bun, down. It hung not quite to her shoulders. It framed her oval face beautifully.She had put on a little make-up, not too much, and dabbed a little perfume in several places. When Jim saw her as he came into the apartment he thought: "she is radiant tonight."

  They embraced, a little too long. She was not quite ready. He was stunned by how she smelled, how her skin felt, how her smile penetrated his every fiber. He did not have to be told she was thinking of many things, many things including the end of the Wells boy, the end of the Ghost. They nuzzled a little, just enough for him to know her intent.

  She radiated more than just beauty. She was woman. She was powerful. No she wasn’t just powerful she was a mountain of power, an epic hunter, a stalker of all things bad. She exuded confidence, beauty, all those things a woman who is self-possessed, confident, able, has to give to a man, if she chooses. She was filled with the spirit of her accomplishments of the day, full of anticipation of taking Wells off the street, full of life. She was a little anticipatory. She knew, felt it in her bones, the plans she had set in motion, both here, at home, in the now, and tomorrow, in the dark, would succeed. It was her moment and she relished knowing it to be true.

  They finished a nice bottle of champagne he had brought with him. They snacked a little on a shrimp tray. She said to him, "Why don't you shower and I will join you in a few minutes in my bed." He was only too happy to do exactly what she asked. As he lay in her bed, in semi darkness, she walked into the bedroom with light framing her from behind. Again he was stunned. He had not been with her in a long time. She had worked on her fitness and her figure was a picture framed by the light. The little musculature which showed on her body was an enhancement to everything else she possessed and the rest was stunning without her newly made muscle.

  They finished each other for the evening. She had no compunctions about his being married. It was an important night, a singular moment of her life. In her moment of knowing the next night might be her last she just didn't care. He too felt the urgency, the need, and he forgot, for the moment, his marriage vows. Afterward the two of them slept like babies. As she fell asleep she thought to herself, tomorrow night I am going to go trolling. She also thought, tomorrow night I might take a life. The thought of ending Wells' life made her smile momentarily even though it was daunting.

  After a warm wake up with another time of holding each other for a while, after a wonderful breakfast the two of them shared, she called in and said she would be a little late. She arrived at the office with a smile on her face and a purpose in her heart. She had told Jim Wilson what she planned on doing. She didn't care if he wrote a story about the events she was going to create.

  Jim wanted the world to know about the woman he thought it would be easy to fall in love with. But he was married and had children. As the remembrance of his obligations struck him, leaving her place, he knew no article about her would be published. It would show too much intimacy, too much knowledge of her to say in print what he was thinking. God what a woman, he said to himself repeatedly as he drove to work.

  She went into the office and talked for a long time with Tom about how she might create a small knife that she could tape to the fingers of her left hand. Wells, when he came up behind the women in the past, took the plastic bag, slipped it over the woman's head and pulled it very tight with his left hand. She wanted to be able to deal with his ploy if he was able to get the bag over her head.

  If she had a knife in her hand she could cut his hand and maybe force him to let go of the bag, and then she could turn and burn the son-of-a-bitch with a round or two, or at least get him on the ground and cuffed up. She worked on the knife set-up most of the day along with consulting with other detectives on cases aside from the campus rapes. Time crept by. It seemed to her, as it was ending,the daylight hours would never pass.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, she said to Tom, "Please Tom, I need to know this thing is going to work. I promise to take it slow and easy and not cut you but you have to slip a bag over my head so I can see it happen in my own mind, deal with the possibility. Please." He complied. Someone came up with a plastic bag, He walked up behind her, slipped it over her head rapidly and just as rapidly found himself holding two split halves of the bag and staring a woman with a knife in his face.

  "Shit, you are fast Jeanne. How the hell did you . . .?" She showed him how easy it was to slip the knife under the bag as it was coming over her head. He said, "Well it isn't dark though is it?"

  "No, it isn't. Certainly it will make a difference when it is dark in my ability to react. But I won't try to cut the bag then, I will cut his hand as deeply as I can." She had created the picture of the events in her mind. He would put the bag over her head with two hands and pull it tight with his left hand as always. She would stab him in the left hand until he let go of the bag. It would not take long.

  Late in the same afternoon Jeanne drove from the office to Scalian University. As she drove onto the campus she heard on her police radio about Jefferson Wells II, the former President of Scalian turning himself in along with his wife. Jeanne had no thought of charges being brought against Mrs. Wells. But she was taken into custody on the open charge of harboring a fugitive just in case the Deputy District Attorney controlling the case decided to take her down as well.

  It was early yet, too early to set up for the trap. She went to the Scalian cathedral. Jeanne was raised as a Catholic. It had been many months since she had been in a church. The time seemed to have gotten away from her in regard to practicing her religious beliefs. She was a believer but had never been one to attend mass every week, go to confession every month, whatever.

  A priest in the cathedral asked if he could help her. She said, "I think I need to make confession, Father. Will you be able to take my confession?"

  "Of course. Come with me."

  She took confession. It had been a long time. It took a while for her to come out of the confessional. The sun was beginning to set, the gloom not yet full. Time was approaching the hour she would take the ghost down, but it was not time yet. She walked over to the Campus Police Department. When she got to the Campus Police station she called her office to see how the interrogation of Wells, the senior, was going. She talked with Captain Will Atherton who was in the observation room watching another lieutenant interrogate Wells.

  When the Lieutenant asked the question, "Were you aware there were unsolved rapes which were occurring at your last place of employment?”, Wells II went on a rant. He fairly yelled at the Lieutenant about how his son had received treatment and his son was fine. Wells said the "rapes" which had been alleged in Georgia were all found to be consensual sex incidents in the run of the investigations. He said his son was not involved in anything like the rapes and murders which had taken place at Scalian. It was the confirming deductive point Jeanne really needed to totally cement the knowledge that Wells III was the Ghost.

  Jeanne heard earlier from Bret about his phone calls to Georgia. Bret produced some interesting pieces of information in those calls. There had been a
series of unsolved rapes occur at the university where Wells II, the father, was employed. Those rapes stopped, mysteriously, when the Wells family left Georgia and came to Arizona. No one had ever been arrested. One person, according to someone who had not been connected to the investigations, was questioned. The women who had at first alleged rape eventually recanted and said the sex acts were consensual.

  She also heard from Captain Horning. He told her there were some obscure mentions in the logs of the campus police of rapes occurring at Scalian as far back as a year and a half or so. She already knew those came after the Wells family moved to Arizona. Good, she thought, now we all know him for sure for what he is. She asked Horning, “Do you have any doubts about who the rapist is Captain Horning?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So you also have no doubts about the guilt of his father in covering up those rapes here in Arizona?”

  “I believe his father acted out concern for his son but what he did was totally and completely wrong.”

  The Campus Police Office had a front entrance which was lit up brightly. It also had a rear entrance where officers parked their cars and came into the building from the parking lot. It had lights as well but on this night they were left off. As the full dark fell, Bret, who had been in the police building virtually the entire day, went out the rear door.

  He was dressed all in black. His face was blackened. His hands were blackened. All the web gear he wore was black but matte in shade. His shoes were not shined. As he walked into the gloom he could hardly be seen from a distance of more than a few feet. He ran low on a planned route from one dark spot to another until he got to a large set of oleander bushes.