An Apple for Zoë: Book One ~ The Forsaken
Thomas Amo








The City of San Francisco is locked in a grip of fear. A series of occult murders has lead, Inspector Thomas James to a crime scene similar to a murder committed 90 years ago in the once grand Aleris Hotel. A place where power barons of the early 20th Century engaged in witchcraft. And silent film stars indulged in the most wicked of sins. A place where no one questions the black smoke that rises from the hotel's incinerators in the middle of the night.






Thomas Amo 

An Apple For Zoë





Acknowledgments


No one ever truly writes a book alone. Along the way there are several people who in some way or another are instrumental in the delivery of the final product. If it were not for these heroes who sit silently on the sidelines giving you encouragement or fellow artists who help to inspire you to reach your final destination, none of this would be possible. For you, I am truly grateful. Firstly is my wife Ashton, who tirelessly read, read, and re-read the same chapters over and over again. Without your undying devotion this book would still be just notes in a journal. To my wonderfully talented cover artist Julija Lichman, you have given my book its first breath of life with your amazing talent thank you so much for taking on this project, because of you Julija, Zoë is now immortal. Paige Comrie, meeting you was a breath of fresh air. Your willingness to jump in and collaborate gave me an insight that went way beyond my expectations. Your generosity took character creation to a whole new level for me. To my editor Annie Rapaport Hunt, your skill and objectiveness always helped to keep me on track and deliver a beautifully polished rich tapestry of written word. Thank you also to graphic artist Jeannifer Marciella Soeganda, your artwork of "Amanda" takes the reader away from the very beginning. Katelyn Hernandez, the initiative you showed from the beginning convinced me you were exactly the right artist for this project. A special thank you to Frank and Stacey Hernandez for your amazing support of the project and allowing Ashlyn to also be a part of it. You have made Ashley and I feel like family.  To Carmen & Dan for being so generous and allowing me to use Casa De Carmen for the photo shoot! Love you Ma!

Finally I would be remiss if I did not thank Joanna Landingham. Jo, you were always the first to cheer and rally others to this book. In a way you have taken the torch from your father to carry on where he left off with me. He always kept encouraging me to finish. He would say, "It's already written, it just has to pass through your fingertips."  He loved knowing he was reading it before anyone else was. He was my first audience, and my driving force behind finishing it. He was and always will be in my heart. I love him and miss him dearly and because of him I am a better artist today. Thank you~ All of you!

Thomas Amo ~January 5, 2011




Dedication


For D.W. Landingham

~ This One's For You Duke ~




Chapter One

Amanda





She looked perfect now. Her hair was combed just right. Lipstick applied with the expertise of a Hollywood make-up artist. Her hands neatly placed one on top of the other to show off her manicured nails. The fresh scent of perfume emanated from her blouse filling the room with a sweet euphoria. Her portrait loomed by her side, it showed an innocent smile that was underlined by a hint of sultriness that reflected in her eyes. Eyes that could catch the attention of any man she desired.

Flashbulbs popped and lit the room with the brief, yet intense, glow of a lightning storm. Finally her audience had arrived. She was at long last the center of attention. Everyone wanted to see her. Several policemen stood keeping reporters and spectators at a respectable distance. The media sat waiting, eager to learn every detail about  Amanda Carlyle.

Thomas James looked at Amanda, noticing just how perfect she truly was. She was indeed the sort of woman that all men desire. He wondered how many men had she rejected. Denied the pleasure of her company or affections. Yet it now seemed that someone did get Amanda's attention and he had made her perfect in every detail. Her screams were now silent, all the blood gone, and Inspector Thomas James puzzled over the most bizarre crime scene of his career. His bespectacled hazel eyes looked down at Amanda Carlyle, who was bathed in a pink glow of dimmed lights and lit candles. The coffin lid open, exposing her only from the waist up. A Catholic set up was in place for potential mourners to come kneel and pray the rosary. She was completely prepared for her funeral, the problem was; Amanda Carlyle was alive just six hours earlier. James examined the note that had been carefully placed in her hands. To his astonishment the note was handwritten and not typed. In a world of word processors and text messaging, it was amazing that someone would actually leave behind a handwritten clue. He parted the folds of the note, his hands sweating inside the latex evidence gloves that were a size too small. James once again read the words written in the scrawl of a child. "Amanda you are the prettiest girl i have ever seen. i hope you do not have a boyfriend because i like you, i would be the best boyfriend in the world to you. You and me could be together and we would be so happy. So tell me if you like me too? Mark yes or no.  hopefully your new boyfriend, Edmund Frayker." 

A cold shiver ran down Inspector James' neck as he looked at the bottom of the note with two box shapes under the words yes and no. It reminded him of his grammar school days, when boys and girls would attempt to ask the all-important question of "I like you, do you like me?"  The "no" box in the note was clearly marked with an "X" in the same childlike scribble. Even more confounding was the fact the suspect left a name. Was this a trick? Or was he dealing with a monster that possessed the mind of a child?

James crossed over to the manager's office. There he observed a seasoned looking funeral director who silently watching the rain patter against the window. A man used to spending his time with the dead, he appeared unusually calm considering the events he had witnessed this morning. James noticed that the man, dressed in traditional funeral black suit, white shirt and blue striped tie, shivered from the dampness of the morning rain as he held a lukewarm cup of coffee between his hands.

"Excuse me, Mr. Blackstone?" James smirked to himself as he consulted the director's name from his notes. Blackstone, how much more cliché could a name be for a funeral director? thought James.

"Max," the man replied.

"Max, I'm Inspector Thomas James, Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" he said holding his badge up for Blackstone to see he was a homicide detective with the city of San Francisco. Glancing briefly at the badge, the funeral director nodded that he was willing.

"What time did you arrive here at the mortuary?"

Without blinking, or making eye contact, Blackstone continued to watch the rain. "7:00 a.m. like everyday."

"When did you find Miss Carlyle?"

"Seven fifteen exactly," he stated.

"How can you say exactly," asked James?

"The grandfather clock in the foyer. It chimes every quarter hour. It chimed as I entered the slumber room."

"Slumber room?"

Blackstone nodded. "That's what we call the viewing rooms, Inspector James. It's a Victorian term, not often used in the business any longer. However, we still find it quite fitting, adds to the ambiance."

"Ambiance," muttered James sarcastically.

Blackstone turned from the window and looked at James. "I wouldn't expect you to understand the measures we take to care for the deceased, inspector."

James was quickly tiring of Blackstone's snobbery. "I'm sure you guys do a bang up job here Max, but let's get back to the murdered girl you've got laying in your 'slumber room.' You said, you noticed her at seven fifteen." Blackstone nodded in agreement. James scribbled intently his notes. "Why not before then?" asked James. Blackstone spoke flatly. "Because she wasn't there."

James stopped writing. "Wait a minute, are you telling me, you arrived at seven a.m. and this room was empty. Then fifteen minutes later she was in here?"

"That's correct," said the funeral director as he shifted in his chair.

"How is that possible? How can you be sure she wasn't there, when you arrived? I mean this place is dark even with the lights on," commented James.

Blackstone looked at James with a slight smirk. "Yes, it is a bit of a haunted house isn't it?"

James didn't care for the funeral director's joke. It seemed to be a bland attempt at masking what normally was arrogant behavior.

"Then you understand Mr. Blackstone that means the murderer was still in the building when you arrived this morning."

"It would appear so, wouldn't it inspector."

"Doesn't that frighten you?" asked James.

"Why should I? Obviously his intent was to dazzle us with the girl. If he had wanted me dead, then I believe I wouldn't be sitting here talking with you."

As much as the funeral director's statement annoyed James, he had to agree with him. The girl was his focus. Yet he took a huge risk of being caught by Blackstone. Was that also his intention? To stay long enough to move her into place and slip away completely unnoticed. But given the crime scene, that doesn't seem to fit. He needs to see... James stopped in mid-thought. He quickly left the funeral director's side and returned to the slumber room. He looked the room over. The French doors were open, inviting all to step inside. Two brown leather wing chairs sat at opposite ends of the casket. A small hunter green love seat was placed against one wall. Hidden by the darkness next to the love seat was a small-framed oak door. It's woodcarvings dated back easily over a hundred years. It was ornate and intricate and the brass doorknob reflected the pale flames of the candles in the room.

Stepping into the room Max Blackstone observed James with an intense curiosity. James felt Blackstone's presence.

"What's this?" asked James pointing to the small door.

"It's a storage closet," said Blackstone.

"For what?" asked James?

"It's where we keep the Catholic set up. Like you see now. The candle pedestals, the crucifix behind the casket, and the kneeler in front."

James looked at the religious contents placed as Blackstone had stated. "All of this fits into that tiny closet?" asked James.

"Absolutely, I'll show you," he said as he passed James, and reached to open the door to show him the contents. James grabbed Blackstone's hand stopping him. Looking at James, the funeral director's face showed his growing agitation.

James silently pointed at the door and then at the funeral director. Blackstone's eyes suddenly widened, announcing to James that he understood. The director replied in a hollow voice, his fear was evident.

"He watched me?"

James nodded in agreement. "He needed to see you Max. You were his audience."

For the first time that morning James saw fear on Max Blackstone's face.

"I need some air, inspector," he said as he backed out of the room and made his way to the cold rain soaked stone steps of the mortuary entrance. Watching him leave, Inspector James called to Bobby Stillwell, the CSI, who was setting his kit up in the foyer.

"Bobby, have you dusted this door yet?"

The young fresh-faced Stillwell joined James inside the slumber room. The two men greeted each other shaking gloved hands.

"Hey Tom, good to see you. Which door are you talking about?" James pointed into the darkness leaving Stillwell puzzled.

"Damn, Tom, you know I never even knew there was a door there. It's so freaking dark in this place; a guy would need a set of floodlights to see anything. Shine your flashlight on the door handle a second for me."

James retrieved his flashlight from the pocket of his raincoat and clicked it on. The brightness gleamed off the brass finish of the old world handle. Stillwell worked quickly, dipping his brush into the chemical that would reveal any latent fingerprints.

Both men looked close at the doorknob. As expected the men found satisfaction at the sight of several clear fingerprints.

"Oh yeah, and fresh too. Do you want me to print the funeral director for elimination prints?"

"Yeah, just to be on the safe side."

In a matter of moments Stillwell had secured the prints from the door. "Okay Tom, all clear, shall we see what's hiding behind door number one?"

James reached over and gently twisted the knob, hearing the latch free itself from the strike plate. Pulling the door open the blackness of the room revealed nothing. James raised his flashlight and clicked it on once more.

"Oh my God!" shouted the CSI. In unison James and Stillwell stepped away from the closet. James dropped the flashlight and with lightning reaction pulled his Colt 9mm from its holster.

"Freeze!" shouted James.

"Guys, get in here!" called Stillwell to the officers standing in the doorway of the funeral home. In seconds three officers were at their sides, guns drawn along with James.

"Bobby, get the flashlight," ordered James.

Stillwell leaned down and grabbed the light and aimed it into the closet. Hanging from an electrical cord was the dead body of a man.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said one of the officers.

"Blackstone! Close the doors," shouted James as he moved closer to the dead man.

Reporters began converging on the steps and attempting to make their way inside, snapping photos trying to get an image of the latest twist in Thomas James' morning.

One of the three officers joined with Blackstone at pushing the reporters out and closing the door.

"So, what do you think, Tom? You think it's a murder-suicide?" asked Stillwell.

"God, I hope so," said James as he peered closer. He could see something was pinned to the lapel of the dead mans jacket.  "Bobby, get a shot of this."

"What is it?"

"I think it's a note. Looks like this just might be a murder-suicide after all."

Collecting himself, Stillwell raised his camera and aimed it and clicked off several shots. His attention then turned to a gleaming reflection from the flash of his camera.

"Tom, wait, I see something else."

Moving closer, Stillwell reached for James' flashlight. Responding without hesitation James handed it to him. Illuminating the body, Stillwell could see that the man's arms were behind his back as he brought the light up to reveal yet another shock.

"Oh man, Tom you're not going to believe this," said Stillwell as he stepped away.

James furrowed his brow at the CSI and returned his gun to its holster as he took the flashlight to see for himself. Kneeling down in the small space James could now see the dead man's hands were tightly bound together with barbed wire.

"Jesus." muttered James to himself. Carefully he stood up reached for the man's lapel and removed the note. Holding it in a way, that would later allow Stillwell to dust it for prints.

"So, is it a suicide note? What's it say?" asked Stillwell.

James swallowed hard as he looked at the note written in the same scrawl as the Amanda love note. His blood ran cold.

"It says, 'Pretty Ballerina'."




Chapter Two

Pretty Ballerina


  October 11, 1969, seemed just like all the other Octobers that had come before it. The cool breeze billowed the soft white curtains of Julie Jackson's bedroom window. Lying on her bed, Julie's long brown hair fell across her tanned shoulder. Deep, rich eyebrows accentuated her glistening brown eyes, as she stared deeply into Tommy James' smile. At 14 years old, could she really be this happy?  No boy had ever turned her head like Tommy did.  She had boyfriends before, but not like this. This was no idle puppy love, this was different. Tommy was different. He wasn't like other boys, who only wanted to see her boobs. He talked of romantic things, and unlike other boys he didn't treat her differently when his friends came around and Julie loved him for it.

Ironically, Julie's favorite band was Tommy James and the Shondells. This only solidified her belief that her love for him was eternal.




Julie's radio, which played gently in the background, was permanently tuned to AM station, 610 KFRC. The steady drumbeat and piano of Pretty Ballerina by The Left Banke filled the room. Julie's heart swelled as Tommy lay across from her. The fear of being caught by her parents was the farthest thing from her mind as Tommy brushed his hand across her cheek. With so much to be said, Julie could hardly contain herself, as she was about to share her very first kiss with the one boy she would love for the rest of her life. The two—would-be lovers—whispered softly to one another as to keep their Saturday evening rendezvous a secret.

"You sure your dad won't come in?" asked Tommy.

Julie smiled and wrapped her barefoot around Tommy's ankle closing the distance between them.

"Are you kidding, it's Saturday night, he's got his martini and a new color television. Soon he'll be overdosing on Jackie Gleason, Lawrence Welk, and don't forget tonight, Bing Crosby is the host on The Hollywood Palace," she said with a wry smile.

"Bing Crosby over Petticoat Junction?" he asked playfully.

"No, I'm serious, all week long, all I've heard is, 'Bing is on The Hollywood Palace, so keep it quiet, and maybe in the morning we can all have some Minute Maid orange juice,' " she said in her best father's impression of Bing Crosby. The two of them covered their mouths to keep their laughter to a minimum. As their laughs subsided their eyes met.

"Kiss me Tommy," said Julie in a sweet romantic plea.

Leaning together, Tommy gently placed his lips against Julie's. Hers were soft and moist. Together they found the bliss of innocence. In a daring move, Tommy slowly parted his mouth and Julie took his gesture and the young lovers enjoyed the pleasure of a first French kiss. Pulling Tommy closer, Julie wrapped her petite arms around him. Holding him tightly against her, Tommy could feel the swell of her breasts. When their kiss ended Julie placed her head on Tommy's shoulder. The euphoria of the moment was forever etched in her mind to the tune of Pretty Ballerina, and made even more perfect as Tommy whispered in her ear.

"I love you, Julie."

*   *   *


Stopping on the sidewalk to adjust his black horn-rimmed glasses, the melodic sounds of The Left Banke called his attention to a nearby window. Hidden by the darkness and fog, the stranger stepped from the sidewalk and into the yard. Cautiously he made his way to Julie's bedroom window. Silently he watched the young lovers as they lost themselves in their passion. Gripping the gun, which was buried in his pocket, his fingers caressed the gun in a fashion that mirrored the young boy's hand enjoying the touch of the girl's firm, supple breast. As he watched the boy, his own desire increased. Gripping the gun tighter, the stranger stepped closer to the window. The snap of a dry dead fallen tree branch caught the girl's attention. With a start Julie stopped kissing. Tommy quickly pulled his hand from her shirt.

"Tommy did you hear that?" she said clicking off the radio. Tommy nodded and listened. Silently they both held their breath as to sharpen their hearing. The rustle of dead October leaves crunched slightly.

"Tommy, I think someone is watching us," said Julie in the hushed tone of a frightened babysitter.

"You want me to go look?" asked the boy valiantly.

She nodded her approval. Slowly rising from the bed, Tommy cautiously moved to the window. Standing next to the sill he attempted to peek out and not be seen.

"Julie, turn the light off," whispered Tommy. Julie reached over and pulled the plug from the wall, causing darkness to fill the room. Again Tommy made an attempt to stealthily look out the window. Julie slid off the bed and moved to her bedroom door and opened it slightly, from the distance she could hear her father laughing at the preview bumper for The Hollywood Palace.

Looking out the window, Tommy tried to see, but the fog concealed most everything within view with the exception of the streetlight on the corner of Jackson and Maple. The fog gave the street a look of 1880's London. Slowly appearing from out of the mist, Tommy could see the stocky figure of a man lumbering into the glow of the streetlight. The man stopped for a moment at the corner and seemed to be looking at his watch. He turned and began walking south up Maple Street disappearing from Tommy's view. It was 9:00 p.m.  

*   *   *


Sitting at his desk, staring out the window at the fog enshrouded San Francisco skyline, Detective Thomas James' thoughts returned to the present as his daydream was broken by the soft calming voice of fellow detective and best friend Michael Kirkland.

"I heard you got a suicide note on this one, Tom."

"No Mike, it's definitely not a suicide note, but it most certainly is disturbing."

James's comment peaked Kirkland's interest, he found a chair and sat opposite of his best friend.

"What do you mean?" asked Kirkland.

James leaned in as if it would make the conversation more private. "I've seen a lot of weird crime scenes in my day, you know this city we get it all, but this one was downright scary."

"Scary? In what way?"

"It wasn't just the fact we had a double homicide, but it was everything, right down to the kinky little details. This guy didn't just murder two people, it was the way he killed them. Choosing a funeral home for a start."

"Not your typical crime scene, but not out of place to bring a dead body," commented Kirkland.

"That's where things begin to get scary, Mike. Amanda Carlyle wasn't dead when the killer brought her there."

"He killed her inside the funeral home?"

"Killed her, bathed her, dressed her, and even took the time to do her hair and make up."

Kirkland shivered as he sat silently trying to absorb James' story.

"The frustrating thing is that there are far more questions than there are clues," lamented James.

"That's par for the course, so tell me what you do know for sure."

James slid the case file across the desk to Kirkland.

"At 11:00 p.m. last night Amanda Carlyle was out with a girlfriend. They were both seen at The Cellar nightclub on Sutter Street. She and her girlfriend got into an argument with another couple of girls and the bouncer kicked Amanda and her friend out. According to the friend, she left Amanda at the parking garage next to Pier 39. That was the last time she saw her."

"So who's this friend?" asked Kirkland.

"Valerie Rivera. We're still trying to catch up with her and check her alibi."

James gave Kirkland a concerned look. "Trouble is Mike, there's something else. Something that's even more freaky then this whole crime scene." Kirkland sat the file down to listen.

"So we found a note on Amanda. It's like a confession, and written in what appears to be a child's handwriting. It's signed by someone claiming to be Edmund Frayker."

"So you checked out the name right?" asked Kirkland.

"Oh yeah, I checked it out alright. Edmund Frayker was killed in a fire in England 1888. Or so people say. Based on the research I did, some people think the fire was just a ruse to get people to believe he had died. He was also a Jack the Ripper suspect, and London continued to suffer a string of prostitute murders well into 1892, Scotland Yard just kept it quiet."

"Sounds like your killer likes playing games.  Do you think this guy is pretending to be Edmund Frayker and is going after prostitutes, Tom?" James shrugged.

"Because, this girl doesn't fit the prostitute category, she's young, attractive, comes from a decent background," continued Kirkland.

"So did half the girls in the Manson Family, Mike. So far I can't find any evidence that tells me she was into drugs, or that she was a high price call girl, yet on top of her weird murder, we got this guy in the closet hung and bound with barbwire. And I can't link him to Amanda," said James.

"And there was no identification on him, I take it?"

James shook his head no and handed Kirkland the note from the lapel of the dead man.

"Just this."

Kirkland opened the note to read its contents. "Pretty Ballerina, what the hell does that mean? You think the killer is suggesting the guy's a fag?"

"What?"

"Yeah, think about it. The guy is in the closet, a term used for those who haven't come out yet, and he leaves a note that says 'pretty ballerina,' could be."

"Actually it's a song."

"What?"

"Yeah, The Left Banke, remember them?"

"I remember, Walk Away Renee.

James nodded, "Same band. Anyway I think this note was left for me personally."

"Why?"

James took in a deep breath; he rose from his chair and closed the door to his office. Kirkland could see the conversation was about to get very serious. "I've never told anyone this, but when I was 14, I was at a girlfriend's house. We were in her bedroom making out and someone was standing at her window watching us. We heard a noise outside her window, I looked and saw some guy walking away down to the corner at Washington and Maple."

"Okay, so, you got a peeper who gets off watching kids screw around. How does that have anything to do with this?"

"The song playing on the radio that night was Pretty Ballerina. 

Kirkland sat looking puzzled, as James unfolded more of the bizarre events.

"And that night wasn't just any old Saturday night in San Francisco. It happened to be October 11, 1969." Kirkland uttered a stunned whisper. "Zodiac."




Chapter Three

Zodiac


"I met him you know," said James.

"Zodiac?" asked Kirkland.

"It was later that same night. As it happens Julie lived just two blocks from Washington and Cherry. After I calmed her down, we both thought it best that I head on home before her father did catch us.  I started home right about 9:40 p.m. and as I'm walking up Cherry towards Washington I see a figure walking towards me from the other direction. I wouldn't have given it another thought, but I noticed the guy was lumbering along. Just like the guy who I saw standing at the corner about 40 minutes earlier. He continued his slow lumbering walk, and I stopped to think about crossing the street to avoid him, when he called to me."

Kirkland could see the uneasiness return to James as he recounted the story.

"He says, 'Hey kid, can you tell me the time?' I start to say sure, when I see the guy already has on a watch. Which only creeps me out even more. I quickly glance at my watch and say 21:45. The guy stops and looks me dead in the eye. It's dark out and there's no light I can't really see anything except the top of his crew cut and edges of his horn-rimmed glasses. But his eyes were white. I mean really white Mike. Scared the shit out me. He then says, 'So you know military time?' I say the only thing I can think of which was, my father, he taught me. He's a retired navy man.  The guy then says 'Navy man huh?' Then the guy got really quiet and looked around as if he's trying to make a decision. Then without looking at me says. 'You better get on home kid, it's getting late. The Zodiac might get you.' Then he just walked past me, continued down the street, turned the corner and was gone. I was so scared, I ran the rest of the way home, and I swear Mike, I have never told a soul that story. I mean no one. You are the first person I've ever repeated it to." James sat down heavily at his desk. He felt weary from talking about his brush with death.

"So after you became a cop, you never looked into the Zodiac files? You never talked to any of the guys who worked it?"

"Come on Mike, I was 14 when this happened. I never said anything because if I tell and they don't catch him then I'm as good as dead. By time I joined, Zodiac was beyond being a cold case, and it wasn't as if I could really help the investigation any further," stated James.

"Are you kidding Tom? If you really were face to face with Zodiac, then you're probably the only person he ever let go."

Both men sat in silence. James stood and stared out the window. His mind was a flood of confusing thoughts. Finally Kirkland broke the silence.

"Was it Arthur Leigh Allen?"

James stood with his back to Kirkland. The memory flashed in his mind's eye. He then turned and faced his friend.

"It was dark. But yeah, I always thought so."

"God was looking out for you that night, Tom."

"Oh come on Mike, you know I don't believe in that crap. The guy already killed the cab driver, maybe he got spooked or I just got lucky. But I don't believe there was any divine intervention. Not for a moment."

"You wait Tom, someday you will feel very differently. Mark my words. Okay so, do you think that after all this time, Zodiac is still alive and left a note to remind you of that night?"

James shook his head. "God, Mike, that's just too surreal to be true. I mean it can't be. Arthur Leigh Allen died in 1992. And if it really was Zodiac the guy would have to be in his late seventies, hell even eighties. No, this crime scene was clever. Calculating and for lack of a better term, evil. And then there's the note. Only three people in the world could possibly know what it means. And that is myself, the guy in the window and Julie."

"Where is Julie today? Would you have any idea?"

"Maybe Los Angeles. The last time I saw her was at her mother's funeral. That was 13 years ago. We actually considered getting back together since neither of us had ever married."

"So why didn't you?" asked Kirkland.

"We spent a few nights together and as wonderful as it was, we both somehow felt it would never work. She had to return to Hollywood and care for her father and I already had over twenty years with the department. I couldn't just give all that up to chase a childhood crush."

Kirkland gave a disappointed look. "That's too bad Tom. True love rarely comes once in a lifetime let alone twice."

  "We both promised to write. But I never got a letter from her. There hasn't been a day I didn't regret letting her go from my life."

"You ever think about trying to find her again?"

Thoughts of Julie gave James a feeling he had long missed. The feelings then gave way to even more sadness. "I have Mike, but I have to think, she's moved on with her life now. She could be married with children of her own. I mean she never wrote back so I think that sort of says it all. Besides if she is married I honestly don't think I would want to know. I mean at the moment, she still belongs to me. My memory of her is still the beautiful brunette that I was head over heels in love with. The girl I eventually lost my virginity to."

Kirkland started laughing, "Okay, too much information."

"Hey you asked," stated James.

Kirkland's mind raced as he tried to put everything into perspective. "Tom, you think the guy in the closet was also the guy in the window?"

James nodded in agreement. "I did consider that. But think about it. I mean let's say the guy in the closet is him, and he did kill Amanda. For all of his cleverness and planning, how can he be certain that I'm going to be the investigating detective? I mean isn't that the whole ball game?"

"Not at all. It's fifty-fifty odds. If he gets you on the crime scene, then for him, it's a stroke of good luck. But even if he doesn't, this thing is too spooky and bizarre. Someone is going to say something about the note. You're going to hear about it, and then he's got your attention."

James laughed. "Damn Mike, why do you always have to be right?"

"It's a gift. What can I say?"

"I say you buy me lunch."

"You name the place and as long as it's not over a buck, I've got you covered."

The two men enjoyed a moment of levity only to be broken by the ringing of Inspector James' phone. James answered the call as Kirkland attempted to grasp the conversation based on James' expressions. Quickly James stood up and thanked the caller. He then replaced the phone and gave Kirkland a look of satisfaction.

"That was Captain Shelton, they found a wallet in the alley behind the funeral home. They think it belongs to the dead guy in the closet."

"Finally a step in the right direction I hope," said Kirkland.

"Cap wants us to meet CSI at the morgue. Dr. Roberts is doing the autopsy on the old man at one-thirty this afternoon. Can you join me?" asked James.

"Lawrence Roberts? The Burlingame Butcher?  I swear when he's not carving up corpses he's working the dinner shift at Benihana's.  I think you better buy me lunch."

"Sure, chopped liver okay with you?"

"You're a sick man, Thomas James."

"Point taken. Okay you get the car and I'll confirm our appointment with the coroner's office. And when I speak to Lawrence I'll be sure to not pass along your moniker."

Both men laughed and then James shook his head and repeated the title with a critical tone.

"The Burlingame Butcher."




Chapter Four

The Burlingame Butcher


The stale smell of blood mixed with running water always hung in the air inside the morgue. No matter how many times the 75-year-old tile floor was mopped, it still showed signs of bloodstains, urine and feces. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of dead bodies. James hated coming here. He called it the death factory. The chief pathologist, Lawrence Roberts, was a tall intense bespectacled man growing close to retirement age. Yet his skill with a scalpel was notorious among the chosen few who had been allowed to witness one of his autopsies. He was a brilliant man, who seemed to understand death as if it had its own language. James remembered his first encounter with Roberts. The case was a 10-year-old girl.

James would never get used to seeing dead children. He knew the doctor had seen so many by this point in his career, the girl might as well been a log of wood. To Roberts there was no difference. He expressed no remorse for cutting the body, no emotion, he was direct and to the point. Roberts was, at the end of the day, always a professional.

Let me tell you a secret, Thomas James, the answer to every murder is right here in the body. Everything you need to catch your killer is right here it's just how you interpret the results. James heard those words in his head over and over, as if they were on a loop whenever he witnessed an autopsy. He would never forget them.

James grew to like Roberts over the years. At first he didn't know what to make of the man whose mood could change in an instant. Like Dr. Jekyll, he was quick, efficient and could discern the cause of death within in a matter of minutes. This same man could also turn into Mr. Hyde with no warning, and you could find yourself being lambasted by a tyrant with a scalpel. Smoke and mirrors to those who knew him well.

As James looked around the room for his crime victims, he noticed the small metal table displaying Roberts, instruments of death. The stainless steel surgical tools were used so often they no longer glistened in the light of the room. A make shift tea towel lay underneath them to absorb the residual water left from the hasty cleaning of the previous operation. There were three scalpels and two sets of toothed forceps. One large, the other one was not much smaller which seemed redundant. However James thought they must serve some distinct purpose. An "S" shaped needle with six strands of precut waxed string knotted at one end was also there. An everyday household butchers knife, hammer and bone chisel were also present. These were all the things one would need it seems, to operate on the deceased. It was macabre to think the very instruments that lay before him could have just as easily been a murder kit. Finally the piece de resistance was the vibrating bone saw. An odd- shaped device that gave James chills just thinking about it cutting through chest bones and skullcaps. He couldn't decide which bothered him more, the sound of the saw cutting into bone or the smell of burnt skull mixed with smoke as the blade cut its way into the unfortunate victims cranium.

Wayne Stevens, the morgue attendant, entered through the double swinging doors pushing a stainless steel table, which carried the body of the old man from mortuary's closet. His body was still dressed, face gray, eyes puffed shut. The tip of a swollen blackened tongue emerged between his lips and was held in place by tightly clenched teeth frozen in a final bite. The barbed wire still wrapped around his wrists binding them together behind his back, with the knotted cord buried deep inside his neck flesh.

Stevens pushed the steel table alongside the autopsy slab, where water was already running through a small rubber hose in order to continuously take the blood away as the autopsy progressed.

"Sure glad I skipped lunch on this one," said Stevens.

"Wish I could say the same," said James.

In all the years James had been a detective, Stevens had always been the morgue attendant. He was a man who just seemed suited for the job. There wasn't anything wrong or weird about him; he just looked like he belonged here with his jet-black hair combed straight back and held in place due to an abundance of hair oil.

"Still using that Vitalis, Wayne?"

"You kidding? Nothing compares, of course you can't really find the old stuff anymore. Now all they want to sell you is mousse or gel. Who wants that crap?" said Stevens as he began to put on his autopsy gown. It was a garment that had most certainly seen more than its fair share of use. As James watched Stevens go through his ritual of dressing and gloving up, he mused to himself the only thing Stevens was missing was a hump on his back as he eagerly awaited Dr. Frankenstein's arrival. It was a terrible thought and he tried to push it from his mind as quickly as it had entered by changing the subject.

"Oh Wayne, I heard CSI found a wallet in the alleyway behind the funeral home for this victim. Do you have it?"

Stevens responded immediately, "Oh yeah, hang on they should have put it the evidence bag, it'll be in my office."

James felt a glimmer of hope as he watched Stevens leave the room. James was now alone with one of the victims. It was an odd, creepy feeling to be the only one in the room with a dead body. A feeling he had experienced more times than he cared to remember. Walking over to the old man, James looked at him closely for the first time. The details were so much clearer in the light of the morgue then in the small tiny closet of a mortuary. A heavy sadness came over him as he looked at the barbed wire wrapped around the frail wrists.

"Who the hell does something like this to a defenseless old man? Someone's grandfather is laying here the victim of senseless hate.  There is no God!" said James angrily.

  But then remembered what Kirkland said and thought to himself. Could this be the man in the window that famous night forty two years earlier? James examined the face. He tried to imagine a crew cut and horned-rimmed glasses. It just didn't seem to fit. In his gut, he felt this was not the guy he ran into that night. But how is he connected to Amanda Carlyle, James wondered?  His attention was diverted from the thought as Stevens returned with a manila envelope marked evidence John Doe #5623/10/23/10. As James took the envelope he glanced at the numbers and shook his head. Can this city really have already had that many coroner's cases?

James didn't even want to speculate how many of those cases were homicides. He began to open the envelope and hesitated for a moment.

"Wayne, CSI dust any of this yet?"

Stevens looked up from his routine of measuring the height of the victim with a household tape measurer.

"I don't know Tom. Better put some gloves on. Plenty, in the big cabinet behind you," said Stevens as he hooked the end of the tape to the old man's shoe, dragging the other end to the top of his head. James' mind wandered into a lost fog as he watched Stevens. For a moment he seemed to forget where he was and what he was doing. "Oh, right."

James then opened the cabinet and retrieved a pair of latex gloves. Slipping them on he snapped them like a doctor preparing for surgery.

"Okay, let's find out exactly who you are," he said reaching inside the envelope until he found the worn brown leather wallet. He sat everything else inside the evidence pouch off to the side. Opening the wallet was the final act of solving the mystery of who the dead man on the table was. At last, a typical unflattering DMV photo revealed the face of the man on the table. It was definitely him. James also noticed the license was recently renewed.

"Richard Skylar of Hollywood, California." James furrowed his brow. You're a long way from home Mr. Skylar. What brings you to San Francisco? he wondered as he examined the driver's license intently. Date of birth, January 21, 1924. Height 5 foot 10 inches, weight 160 pounds, eyes blue, must wear corrective lenses.

"So where are your glasses?" questioned James, as his attention was turned to the old man's eyes. They were brown, not blue.

"Wayne, do eyes change color after death?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if someone had blue eyes, would they turn brown from decomposition?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. Why?"

"This guy has brown eyes and his drivers license records them as being blue."

"Maybe it's a mistake. You done with that?" asked Stevens, holding out his hand, commanding that James hand over the wallet.

"Not really, do you need it now?" asked James.

"Yeah, I gotta document the contents for the doctor."

"Oh, sure thing Wayne, sorry," James said, handing over the wallet to him. The loud buzz of a door buzzer clanged in the next room.

"That must be Bobby," said Stevens as he left the room. Moments later Stevens returned with Bobby Stillwell and Kirkland. James smiled at the sight of his comrades.

"Hey about time there Detective Kirkland, I was starting to feel like I got stood up by my prom date," joked James.

"Oh baby, you know what I like," said Kirkland is his best Big Bopper impression.

Stevens shook his head as he helped Stillwell carry in his CSI kits. James crossed to Stillwell and put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Hey kid, you okay? I know this morning was a bit intense."

"Yeah, thanks Tom, I'm okay. But I have to tell you, I won't be sorry to have this case behind me."

"I know what you mean," replied James.




The young CSI began preparing his fingerprint kit. Taking a tube of ink and squeezing just the right amount on to a smooth steel plate. The ink had the look and texture of greasepaint. It reminded James of his days, as a young aspiring actor. Sitting in front of an old cracked mirror at the Palace melodrama theatre where the older actors taught him how to apply greasepaint makeup for maximum effect. He could still hear the director reminding him, "The guy in the back row needs to be able to see everything the guy in the front row sees." It was times like this that made James wish he had tried harder to make his living in the theatre instead of law enforcement. His daydreaming faded as he heard Stillwell talking to Stevens.

"Wayne, how soon can I print this guy?"

"After the doctor scrapes and clips the nails."

James walked back over to Kirkland, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking as if a nap would better suit him than being the second official witness for the dead. Both men jumped with a start as Roberts stepped into the room. The boom of his hand against the swinging double doors could just as easily have been a gunfighter entering a saloon.

The tall man looked around the room briefly, his expression flat.

"Wayne! Where's the Carlyle girl?"

Stevens began to stutter as Roberts slapped his notepad down on the counter. "She's in the walk-in. I thought you wanted to do the John Doe first," said Stevens, trying to soften the news that he had made the wrong choice.

"NO! The Carlyle case is far more involved than any damn hanging," shouted Roberts.

Definitely Mr. Hyde today, mused James.

"I'm sorry doctor, I'll get her ready in five minutes," said Stevens as he dashed out of the room not waiting for an answer.

The tension in the room was ripe as Stillwell quickly tried to change the mood.

"Dr. Roberts, I can get a jump printing this guy, if you want to examine his nails?"

Roberts looked over his glasses at the young CSI.

"You're new here aren't you?"

"Yes sir."

James and Kirkland both grimaced at the thought that Stillwell was about to be torn a new one.

"If you want to be old here, never keep the man with knife waiting. You understand?" Roberts didn't wait for an answer, he only pressed harder.

"Did you get your shots of the hands yet?"

Stillwell trembled at the thought of saying no, but he responded with a quick concise answer.

"No sir, only because you hadn't had a chance to examine them yet, and I didn't want to contaminate the case by touching it before you could give me the all clear."

Roberts stared silently at the young CSI. Kirkland and James held their breath. Roberts then bellowed, "Good man, start snapping."

Both James and Kirkland blew out a sigh of relief as they watched Roberts go to work, talking rapidly into a small handheld voice recorder as Stillwell moved around him snapping photos. The flashing and clicking of the camera reminded James there would be reporters outside to deal with later.

As the two men wrapped up taking evidence from the old man's hands, Stevens returned with the body of Amanda Carlyle.

"Just let me get her on the table doctor and we're ready to go," said Stevens.

"No hurry," said Roberts as he placed the contents from the fingernails and clippings into a small pale evidence jar.

Dr. Jeykll has returned, thought James.

Stevens, stood ready as Stillwell got the all clear from Roberts to proceed with printing the old man.

Roberts began talking into his voice recorder, then stopped for a moment and pointed at Kirkland.

"What's your name?"

Kirkland felt a leap in his heart, and his voice faltered for a moment. "Michael Kirkland, San Francisco, homicide."

"Case number 5622, Amanda Marie Carlyle, 22-year-old female, victim of apparent homicide, Lawrence Roberts pathologist, witnesses Inspector Thomas James and Detective Michael Kirkland of San Francisco, homicide."

As Roberts delved into recording the details of the case, Stillwell finished printing the old man and quietly packed up his kit and started for the door.

James stopped him and whispered. "You gonna run those prints through the system?"

"I hadn't planned to. It was just routine," said Stillwell who froze as Roberts looked up from his recorder and in their direction. James pushed Stillwell out of the autopsy room and into the foyer of the morgue, "Run them anyway, I'd just feel better if you did."

Stillwell nodded to James and departed as quickly—and silently—as he could. James returned to the autopsy of Amanda Carlyle. As was the protocol, Stevens began to slowly remove each item of Amanda's clothing once Roberts was satisfied there was no further evidence to be gathered. Soon the young woman lay naked before the four men.

"She's got herself a tramp stamp," noted Roberts pointing to her freshly shaved pubic area.

James looked closer. "Looks new too."

Roberts and James leaned in to get a better view. Kirkland stepped away from the table.

"Think I'll skip this show guys."

James furrowed his brow as he attempted to read the tattoo. "It looks like a drawing of a pig. What does that say?"

Roberts clicked his recorder on. "Decedent has a single color tattoo on the mons pubis. Pictured is a cartooned design of a pig facing towards the left side of the body, with the words on the side of it reading: 'I Get Sex: Sin' The colon could also be used to denote the symbol for the word 'equal' meaning, 'I Get Sex, equals Sin.' "

Roberts looked at James for a reaction. James shrugged his shoulders. He then returned to the wall next to Kirkland. Roberts resumed talking into his recorder once again dictating the current state of the body. Stopping he placed his hand on her chin. Slowly turning her head left and then repeating the ritual by turning it to the right. Confused both James and Kirkland watched him.

"This girl has had a cerebral hemorrhage," said Roberts.

James pulled himself away from the wall.

"Really?"

Roberts motioned for James to come join him.

"Look there, the eye on the right. See how the pupil is all the way open and the eye on the left appears to be normal?"

James nodded his understanding.

"Her brain has been blown out. I guarantee once we get inside the skull there will be blood, this may not be a homicide boys."

James was suddenly confounded.

"Wait a second, this girl was alive last night at a club with another girl. I know it's odd she ended up in a funeral home ahead of schedule, but how can you say it might not be a homicide?"

"Come on, Tom, this sort of thing can be congenital, weak arteries, high blood pressure, habitual cocaine abuse. How do you know she's not a junkie?"

"So she just brings a life sized portrait of herself to the local mortuary, finds a casket she fancies, shoots a little smack and hops in?" James asked. "Come on Larry, look at her, she's beautiful. I admit that she's dead, but does she look like a junkie?"

  Roberts put his recorder down. "Remember your first case, the 10-year-old girl? Same thing, her grandfather said she slept all weekend long, he thought she had the flu, when he finally came in to wake her up she had been dead two days."

"I remember."

Kirkland cut into the conversation. "So what was it?"

Roberts turned to him. "We couldn't figure out what had happened based on the history. Then I saw the overly dilated pupil. Examined her arms for signs of shooting up, nothing. Then I remembered a colleague of mine had dealt with a similar case. You remember what I did Tom?" asked the doctor.

"Yeah, you looked between her fingers with a magnifying glass."

"Exactly, and that's where we found the needle marks."

Kirkland was stunned. "You're kidding me. A 10-year-old was shooting cocaine?"

"Wayne, get my magnifying glass," ordered Roberts.

In moments the doctor was checking Amanda's hands. From his expression James could tell he wasn't finding anything. Roberts then moved down to the girl's feet and spread her toes. His expression changed once again to one of triumph.

"Bingo," said Roberts.

Kirkland shook his head in denial.

"She actually shot up between her toes?"

"That means she's hiding her drug use from someone," said James.

"Is it possible, Dr. Roberts, she didn't inject herself?" asked Kirkland.

"You're suggesting perhaps that her injections were forced?" quizzed the pathologist.

"Yeah."

"Sure it's possible, but I don't see any signs that her feet or ankles had been bound or held down."

Their attention was suddenly taken to the swinging doors. Stillwell stood out of breath. His faced covered in sweat and his complexion pale.

"Tom, you're not going to believe this! You're old guy, 84-year-old Richard Skylar. He's not Richard Skylar at all. He's 95-year-old, Hermann Kritzler."

"Okay, so the old guy lied about his age and changed his name. Big deal," said Kirkland.

"Who the hell is Hermann Kritzler?" asked James as he saw Roberts face go white.

"Reinhard's rapist," said the doctor in a hollow tone.

"Reinhard's what? What are you guys talking about?" asked James.

"Reinhard Heydrich was Himmler's number one man. He ran the Belzek death camp. Kritzler, was chosen to organize transportation of Poles and Jews to Belzek," said Roberts.

"This guy is a Nazi?" asked Kirkland

"He's not just any Nazi, he's a Nazi who actually begged and bribed Heydrich for his position at Belzek. A position that gave him total control over deciding which women would go immediately to the gas chambers and which would be selected for his special project."

"Special project?" asked Kirkland.

"Women began learning that they could avoid the gas chamber if they begged him for sex which he eagerly indulged in. He still had them killed anyway. Along with the ones who didn't offer him sex, usually the younger girls. Those were the ones he took special pleasure in raping." Roberts paused for a moment. "Later, when he came to Auschwitz the raping didn't stop, he continued at the same time having an affair with one of the women guards, Irma Grese. She took revenge by strangling the girls with their own hair." Roberts sounded as if he was reciting a biography, James thought.

"If I'm not mistaken, wasn't it against the law for Germans to have sex with Jews?" asked Kirkland.

Roberts nodded.

"Then why would a Nazi want to have sex with a race of women he hated?"

"Rape is a act of violence, not affection detective," said Roberts.

"This frail old man?" quizzed James.

"This frail old man is a sadistic fiend!" said Roberts pointedly.

"He's been on the Mossad's most wanted list for the last 60 years. His fingerprints came up instantly when I ran them through the system," explained Stillwell.

James mind was a whirlwind of confusion.

"You sure about this, Bobby? You're sure this old man is a Nazi, who's been on the run for the better part of the twentieth century?"

Roberts slowly walked over and looked into the face of the old man. An old man whose hands were now bound together with barbed wire and a knotted electrical cord tied around his neck.

"It's him," said the doctor.

"How do you know?" asked Kirkland.

"I think this says it all," said Roberts.

Kirkland's stomach turned as he saw the doctor unbutton his shirt cuff and roll up his sleeve, revealing a faded blue numerical tattoo.

"You were there?"

"From 1942 until I was moved to Auschwitz in 1944."

"Jesus, I'm sorry none of us had a clue," apologized James. Roberts nodded his acceptance.

"You realize Tom, I can't proceed with the autopsy."

"Why not?"

"Because of who he is, we have to notify the FBI, State Department, and the German Embassy, just for starters."

Kirkland's head was still swimming from the twist the events had just taken.

"You just became an international celebrity Tom."

"Great this is all I need. A case with no answers, weird serial killer kind of murders and on top of that the guy has to be a Nazi war criminal," lamented James.

Stevens face contorted into an expression of curious puzzlement as he began placing Amanda Carlyle's clothing into an evidence bag when something metal fell from her handbag, clanging against the cold tile floor. Wayne reached down and picked it up.

"Uh, guys, I think things just got a little more complicated," said Stevens as he held up a blood soaked straight razor.

"Where did that come from?" asked James.

"Inside her purse. That's not all, I think I also found what it was used on." Stevens held aloft something that was also blood soaked. The men slowly closed the gap between Wayne and themselves.

"Is that what I think it is?" asked Kirkland.

"I do believe it is, Mr. Kirkland," said the doctor.

The five men looked at one another and then at the dead corpse of Hermann Kritzler. "Wayne, slide down Mr. Kritzler's trousers," said Roberts.

The men gathered around the steel table holding the old Nazi's body. Within seconds, Stevens had done as ordered, and they could see a deep maroon stain on the old mans boxers. Stevens looked at Roberts. The doctor nodded the signal to continue. Stevens pulled at the stained boxers, a universal gasp emanated from the witnesses. Roberts smirked as he looked at the Nazi's pelvic area, which was now void of his manhood.

"No more heil Hitler's for this guy."

"Looks like there is justice after all doc," said Kirkland.

"Justice Mike? This monster manages to get away with raping girls, murdering thousands, and live well into the next century. Why now? Why wasn't he executed 60 years ago, with all the other Nazi slime?" fumed James.

"Maybe the Devil wasn't done with him," said Roberts as he scribbled notes into his autopsy book.

James took in a deep breath.

"Wayne, what else you got in that purse?"

Stevens dumped the remaining contents on the table.

"We've got some lipstick, gum, make-up, checkbook, bunch of loose change, piece of paper- wait it's a credit card receipt."

"Receipt for what?" asked James.

"The straight razor."

"Who's the card holder?"

"Virginia Rappe."




Chapter Five

Virginia Rappe


Why do I know that name?

James sat at his desk staring at his computer screen. His face was blank. Was the name another mock clue from Edmund Frayker? Was it supposed to mean virgin rape? he wondered.

James picked up the credit card and examined it closely. It appeared to be new. He turned it over to find it was unsigned. James noted the telephone number to report it lost or stolen. As he dialed, James wondered if the name on the card was the identity of the killer. The voice of a young female operator pulled James away from his musings.

"This is operator 2175, do you have a lost or stolen card to report?"

"Yes, my name is Thomas James, I'm a homicide detective with the city of San Francisco. My badge number is 1563. The card I wish to report has been found at the scene of a homicide."

A long pause filled the air. James knew the operator was trying to absorb the information.

"Did you say homicide, sir?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"One moment."

James knew the operator was putting him on hold to find a supervisor. How long would this take? he wondered. Should he take his dinner break now or just wait it out? His attention returned to the phone as the voice of a man was now on the other end.

"This is supervisor Webber, how may I assist you sir?"

"Mr. Webber, my name is Thomas James, I'm with San Francisco homicide. I need to verify some information on a credit card found at a crime scene we are working on."

There was another long pause. James knew neither, the operator or the supervisor believed him.

"What is your badge number Mr. James?"

"Inspector James, and it's 1563, I already told the girl I spoke with this information."

"Please be patient with us, Inspector James. You understand we have an obligation to our cardholder."

"I understand, so just tell me what you need, so you can verify I'm telling you the truth and we can proceed."

"Just one more moment Inspector, we're verifying your information right now."

James rolled his eyes as he listened to the monotone sound of the supervisor's fake voice. Deepening it, trying to make his voice sound authoritative and threatening, Webber continued, "Thank you for your understanding Inspector James. What information do you require?"

"I need an address and telephone number for this credit card."

James rattled off the credit card number and listened to the clicking of computer keys on the other end of the phone.

"The name on the card please."

"Virginia Rappe."

Another pause. James knew the supervisor sensed something.

"What is it Mr. Webber?"

"Are you sure the card says Virginia Rappe?"

"I'm looking right at it," said James.

"Is the last name spelled, R- A- P- P- E?" asked Webber.

"Yeah, looks like the word rape with an extra 'p' in it."

"I think someone is trying to play a joke on you Inspector."

"What do you mean?"

"Virginia Rappe was a silent film actress."

"Was she?"

"Yeah, she was raped by a guy named, Fatty something or other."

James froze in his chair. The hair stood up on his neck. That's why the name seemed familiar to him, James thought to himself.

"Mr. Webber, can you stay on the line with me a moment?"

"Certainly."

"I'm going to put you on speaker phone."

James turned to his computer and typed into the search engine the name, Virginia Rappe. In a moment he saw dozens of links and photos of a sultry young woman. He clicked on a link titled "FATTY ARBUCKLE and the DEATH of VIRGINIA RAPPE." James' heart raced as he scanned the article. According to the article silent film star Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was blamed for the death of sometime silent film actress Virginia Rappe. The event had occurred at San Francisco's Aleris Hotel in 1921. At a wild party, with heavy drinking, Arbuckle was accused of raping Virginia with a Coke bottle. James shivered at the image in his mind.

"Mr. Webber? Is the address of this cardholder 335 Powell Street?"

"Yes that's right, 335 Powell St. Number 1219, San Francisco, CA."

James quickly scanned the article. There it was in bold black print. Fatty had taken the girl to room 1219.

"Mr. Webber, how many charges are on the card?"

"Just one."

"One? Just how new is this card?"

"Account was opened this month."

"Let me guess, the charge is for a room at The Aleris?" asked James knowingly.

"No, the charge is from The Razor's Edge in Alameda."

Although continuing to read the article online, James managed to turn his attention back to Webber, who was questioning their next step with the card.

"Inspector, what do we do about this card?"

"Keep the account open, Mr. Webber. Notify me at once if the card is used again. I will call you back."

A sick feeling began to come over James as he faced the idea that at this very moment there might be a dead woman waiting for him at The Aleris Hotel. His only hope was she wouldn't be nude with a Coke bottle substituting for a lover. Whatever the answer was, it seemed to be waiting for him in room 1219.




Chapter Six

Room 1219


Kirkland met James at the main entrance of The Aleris around four o'clock that afternoon. The street was unusually quiet. For the most part James always found this area of the city to be bustling, no matter what time it was. As they proceeded up the steps, James stepped on a dead bird. The weight of his foot crushed down on it. To James it felt like squashing a hard-boiled egg. Looking down to see what he had done, James stepped on a second bird, then a third.

"What the hell?" quizzed James as he and Kirkland both found themselves stepping on dead birds everywhere.

"Tom look," said Kirkland as he pointed to the building across the street where there were hundreds of birds perched and watching them.

"That's very Alfred Hitchcock, isn't it?" stated James.

"It sure is, what's even more disturbing is, why are all the dead birds over here and the live ones on that side of the street? What do they know that we don't?"

Cautiously, James and Kirkland made their way to go inside, they were both puzzled to find the doors locked.

"Locked? Hotels aren't supposed to be locked," said Kirkland as he peered through the glass doors trying to get a look inside.

"See anything, Mike?"

"I see several people sitting throughout the lobby."

"Can I help you gentlemen?" asked a young man wearing a suit with the hotel logo on his name badge. Kirkland and James looked at each other and then at the young man. "As a matter a fact you can Mr. Lee, assistant manager of The Aleris Hotel," said James holding up his badge.

"What's going on?"

"Well we were going to ask you that very same question, first off why is your front door locked? And second can you let us in?"

Mr. Lee looked confused. He tried the door, but couldn't budge it. "This door isn't supposed to be locked. Not ever."

"We didn't think so. But it's good to know it can be, because we are here to lock it down."

"What? Why?" asked Mr. Lee.

"I'll have that discussion with your manager. Why don't you unlock the door, let us in, and get your manager on the phone," said Kirkland.

"I can't let you in. I don't even have a set of keys to this door, because it's never been locked as far as I know."

"Okay, get your manager on the phone and tell him, wait, better yet get your manager on the phone and let him speak to Detective Kirkland," ordered James as he watched the young man take out his cell phone and place the call. Moments later he handed the phone to Kirkland. "What's going on Inspector James?" Mr. Lee asked while they waited for the call to connect.

"We have reason to believe you have a terrorist staying here. Hey can't you rap on the door and get someone from the lobby to come over here and just open it up?" asked James.

"I'll try," he said as he knocked hard on the glass. The man sitting closest to the doors just ignored him. "Come on asshole, turn around. Open up! Wait that's Mr. Foster. HEY Mr. Foster open up!" he shouted as he banged hard on the glass.

"Take it easy Lee, your boss is already on his way down here. He told me he'd be here in less than two minuets," stated Kirkland handing Lee back his cell phone. "Got your boxing gloves on?" asked Kirkland.

"We got a problem?" inquired James.

"Oh yeah, the manager is shitting little green biscuits. Says we don't have the right to be here without a warrant."

"Does he know why we're here?"

"No, I told him exactly what you said to say. That we have reason to believe a known terrorist is booked into the hotel."

"Thanks Mike, once we get inside we can see if there's a dead girl up on the twelfth floor."

*   *   *


Moments later a black BMW pulled up into the valet parking and James could tell this would be the hotel manager approaching him with all the vigor of a schoolyard bully. He was tall and charismatic in appearance. James did a double take seeing that man in the Armani suit walking directly at him reminded him of the actor Alan Rickman. Not Harry Potter, Alan Rickman, but Die Hard, Alan Rickman. I hope his name isn't Hans, mused James.

"Pardon me, officer I'd like to talk to you," called the hotel manager in a deep resonate voice that carried an underlying threatening tone. James raised his badge. "Inspector Thomas James."

"I don't give a shit if you're Inspector fucking Gadget. I'd like you to explain to me what exactly you're doing here."

"Didn't Detective Kirkland tell you why we are here?"

"He told me. So what? You don't have any proof and no warrant, so until you have one I'd like you to stay the fuck away from my hotel," ordered the manager.

"And what is your name?" asked James.

"It's Richard Grantham," he said coldly.

 James and Grantham stared silently at one another for a moment, each sizing up the other. James wanted to put the arrogant prick in his place, but knew ultimately he would get father by using diplomacy. James decided to bluff first and see where the cards fell.

"Well Dick, we have a small problem here. You're obstructing justice. Now I know you are concerned for the guests of your hotel. But what are the owners of this hotel and every media outlet in the country going to say, when a bomb goes off killing everyone within five hundred feet of the blast? And you didn't do a thing about it." James could see the manager was way too egotistical to care.

"You storm into my hotel without a phone call or any kind of warning of what you claim is going on. Stopping my guests from leaving. Now you have people scared and panicked. I know my rights. Hamilton Bransford is a personal friend of mine, and a frequent guest here. I suggest you tread carefully Inspector James," said Grantham in a conceited tone.

James smirked as Grantham tried to actually scare him by using the mayor's name.

"Actually we haven't been inside yet, to scare or prevent anyone from going. Your hotel is locked."

Kirkland smirked as he watched Grantham grab the doors and try to move them. He then reached into his pocket and retrieved a set of keys. "I'll thank you both to stay outside until you've got a warrant," growled Grantham.

James had come to the end of his rope with Richard Grantham. As Kirkland walked over to report everything was sealed, James took his handcuffs off his belt.

"Detective Kirkland, arrest Mr. Grantham for obstruction of justice."

Kirkland took the handcuffs and grabbed one of the manager's wrists.

"Mr. Grantham, you have the right to remain silent."

Grantham jerked away. "Wait, wait a minute!"

"Mr. Grantham, are you resisting arrest?" asked James.

Grantham looked worried for the first time. His face became flushed with fear.

"No I'm not resisting, I'm trying to understand what the hell you are doing here!"

"We told you, and you decided to be rude and belligerent. So now you're going downtown."

"I'm not fucking going anywhere!"

Kirkland grabbed Grantham's other wrist. "You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

Panicked Grantham shouted. "What do you want?"

"I want you to knock off all this fucking bravado and take us to Room 1219!"

Grantham fell silent. His face became a blank slate, but his eyes revealed to James he knew exactly what he was asking for.

"You want the..." Grantham couldn't finish the statement.

"Yeah Dick, 'The Fatty Arbuckle room.'  I want you to take me to the very room where he used a Coke bottle on Virginia Rappe."

James and Kirkland could see Grantham's behavior changed in an instant.

"Why do you want to go in there?"

"We have our reasons."

"But those rooms are not available to guests in the hotel."

"Rooms?" questioned James.

"Yes, rooms. Arbuckle booked three rooms that weekend. 1219, 1220 and 1221."

"Which one was Virginia in?"

"All of them. But I still don't understand why you want to go in there. What does any of that have to do with a terrorist in my hotel?" questioned Grantham. James looked at Kirkland who in turn gave him a look that gestured to let Grantham in on the real reason for their presence. James could see it was time to drop the bluff and give diplomacy a try now.

"Detective Kirkland and I are working on a homicide case, where a credit card was found in a victims purse. The name of the credit card holder is Virginia Rappe and the address on the card is this hotel, room 1219," stated James.

Grantham looked shocked, yet his face revealed he wasn't telling James and Kirkland everything he knew.

"So, if these rooms are not available to your hotel guests, what are you doing with them Mr. Grantham?" asked James.

"After what happened in 1921, the hotel owners had the rooms cleared, cleaned and locked."

"You're telling me, no one has been inside these rooms since 1921?"

"No, after the original hotel owners died. The new owners decided enough time had passed and they re-opened the rooms until 1950."

"What happened in 1950?" asked James.

"Vaudeville performer, Al Jolson died in room 1220."

Chills ran down both James and Kirkland's arms. "So you closed the rooms for good in 1950?" asked Kirkland.

"The owners decided they didn't want to take any more chances or bad press. No one would admit that there was something wrong with those rooms. In 1966 the rooms were turned into the maintenance man's living quarters. Since they are suites, they're big enough for someone to live in full time. We figured this was a chance to keep a man always on the premises at all hours. Also it was another way of deterring every sicko from wanting to book them on the Labor Day anniversary. Do you know how many freaks want to fuck in the Arbuckle suite?"

James reached behind Grantham and removed the handcuffs. He could see the manager relax.

"We need your help and cooperation, Mr. Grantham."

"Very well, ask me anything you'd like to know."

"Who is living in room 1219?"

"Our maintenance man, Mr. Skylar."

Now it was James and Kirkland's turn to appear shocked. James cocked his head to the side.

"Excuse me? Did you say Mr. Skylar? Do you mean Richard Skylar?"

Grantham nodded quickly in agreement.

"Yes. Why is there a problem? Mr. Skylar isn't in any kind of trouble is he?"

"Why would you ask that?" questioned James.

"Well I mean the man has been with us since 1966."

"Mr. Skylar has been with the hotel for over 43 years?"

"Yes, I came to The Aleris as manager in 1986 and originally I planned to replace him. However, when I realized he already had been with the hotel for 20 years and carried an impeccable work record, I thought, why bother?"

"And since 1966, The Aleris has not had another incident in the Arbuckle suites?" inquired James.

"Not one. We always thought since Mr. Skylar was such a sweet old guy, he changed the karma of the room, he was good luck for the hotel. So we kept him on, even after he started collecting social security."

James and Kirkland both grimaced in disgust. "Only in America, huh Mike?" said James as he suddenly remembered Skylar's drivers license gave a Hollywood address.

"Mr. Grantham, any reason to think, Mr. Skylar was leaving the hotel? Moving away I mean?"

Grantham shook his head. "No, Mr. Skylar never gave us any indication he was planning on leaving."

"Has he got any family, in southern California that you know of?"

"No, no family at all. He said his wife died during the war. It's why he left Europe and came to the United States. No kids, I mean it's like the guy was totally alone," said Grantham.

James noticed Grantham was about to speak again but stopped himself.

"Something else you want to add?" asked James.

"Why are you asking all these questions about Mr. Skylar?"

"I think you should show us to room 1219. Then we can answer all your questions."

*   *   *


Grantham could tell something was very wrong. He called his assistant manager over and informed him to comply with police and explain to the guests this will be only a minor inconvenience. He then placed the keys inside the lock and opened the door. The four men stepped inside the lobby door. Grantham turned around and relocked the doors.  Lee crossed the lobby calling to Mr. Foster.

"Hey Mr. Foster, didn't you hear me calling to you?" James, Kirkland and Grantham stepped into the main lobby and looked around. "What the hell is this?" asked Grantham as they noticed no one in the lobby had moved. "Mr. Foster?" called Lee. He turned to the others, "Hey, I think something is wrong with Mr. Foster."

"I think you're right Lee, I think he's dead, along with everyone else in the room" said Grantham. James could see Grantham was right. No one was moving. Men and women were frozen dead in their armchairs. Cups of coffee were still lukewarm as if time had just stopped.

"Guys, don't take another step. Something is seriously wrong here. Everyone cover your mouths and back out slowly. Let's get back out on the street. Mike get on the phone and call Hazmat, the bomb squad and get as many officers over here as fast as you can and take Lee with you. God, I wonder if anyone else is alive in here. Dick, how many rooms are in this hotel?"

"The Aleris has 629 guest rooms, 20 additional luxury suites," said Grantham as he relocked the lobby doors.

"Any vacancies?" asked James.

"We're a five star hotel in an international city, what do you think?"

"I think we're about to face some serious shit."

"You still want to go upstairs?" asked Grantham.

"Yeah, I do. Once Hazmat gives us the all clear. Something tells me whatever is going on in room 1219, it's going to be connected to all of this."

The four men methodically retraced their steps back to the street. Once outside, Grantham made certain the lobby doors were secure. Leaning against them he turned to James. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Shaking his head no, James added "But after today nothing would surprise me."

Within the hour the city police had blocked off every street leading to The Aleris Hotel. Crowds of people had been gathering with several activists trying to break through the police barriers. James laughed to himself. Every time there is some kind of media event in this city, the liberal hardliners think it's their personal mission to be in the middle of it all. James loved arresting people who thought the rules didn't apply to them. Hazmat had arrived and they were putting on their nuclear suits while some jerk shouted in the background, "The people have a right to know!"

Standing at the lobby doors, James and Grantham waited for Lee and Kirkland to return. Looking at his watch, James became more and more annoyed that it was taking so long. He could feel valuable clues slipping away from him.

Finally, James could see Kirkland and Lee leading the Hazmat crew to the hotel's main entrance.

"Tom, this is Steve Vermillion. He's the crew leader for Hazmat. Steve, this is my partner, Inspector Thomas James." The two men shook hands quickly and Steve asked who had the keys. Grantham reached into his pocket and retrieved them.

"Here you go."

"Thanks, we will let you know as soon as we can what we find," said Steve.

"Wait a second, hold it, Steve. You can't go in there without us. This entire hotel is a crime scene. You gotta take us with you," commanded James.

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not. I can't take the chance that you or your men could accidentally compromise my scene here. We not just dealing with one homicide, everyone in this lobby is a murder victim."

Steve sighed and radioed for someone to bring up some more gas masks. "But you're taking full responsibility for everyone who's not Hazmat cleared right?" Steve stated. James nodded in agreement as another member of the Hazmat crew arrived with respirators for James, Kirkland and Grantham.

"Lee, I want you to wait here at the lobby doors, handle any questions that Steve's back-up crew have about the hotel. You're also going to be our outside liaison," instructed James. He then turned to the rest of the men and spoke, "Are we ready?"

"We're ready. Okay Mr. Grantham, I want you to follow Jake, my second in command here. He and I are going inside first. You, Mike and Tom will be right behind us. Since you know the layout of the hotel, you can guide us where we need to go and Tom can keep the integrity of his crime scene. Understood?" asked Steve.

Grantham nodded nervously acknowledging he understood the Hazmat leader's instructions.

"Okay, let's go," said Steve as he unlocked the lobby doors and the five men stepped inside. Steve and Jake slowly swept their Geiger counters from left to right, checking for any signs of radiation. Jake read the Geiger counter and gave Steve a puzzled look. Moving deeper into the lobby, he switched the counter off and removed a small handheld RAE gas detector. Sweeping it from side to side and up and down he stopped in the middle of the lobby.

"Jake, are you getting the same readings I'm getting?"

"Same thing, Steve."

"What is it? What do you guys have?" asked James.

Steve turned to James and pulled his respirator off. "Nothing Tom. The air is clean."

"You're sure?"

"You think I would take this thing off if I wasn't sure? Here look for yourself," said Steve as he showed James the clear reading from his portable RAE unit. James looked over at Jake and watched him pull off his mask as he nodded his agreement with Steve. James slowly removed his own gas mask, as did Kirkland and Grantham.

"I don't know what's scarier. The fact I'm standing in the middle of a room full of dead people. Or the fact for the first time in my life, I'm afraid to breath," said James.

"Either way Tom, it doesn't change the fact, something in this building killed these people," said Steve.

So it has to be something else," said Kirkland.

"You're right, Mike. So Steve, any chance we're gonna need to put these things back on again?"

"No, if there was any type of danger. Our instruments would have picked up even the smallest particle. But we'll stay with you guys just the same."

James sighed and turned to Grantham. "Okay Dick, you're on, take us to room 1219." Grantham gave a look of hopelessness. "I was afraid you were going to say that. And I do wish you would stop calling me Dick," Grantham said as he slowly made his way to the main desk. Behind the counter, two of his staff were lying dead on the floor. Their eyes wide open and their hands clutched to their throats.

"Oh my God. What the hell happened here?" asked Grantham as he moved to his office door. "Hey one of you guys want to cover me before I go in here alone?"

James joined Grantham and watched him open up his office. Stepping inside it was quiet. Grantham quickly moved over to and opened an old world safe, retrieving a set of skeleton keys. Lying on the floor next to the safe door was a dead rat.

"Hey Mike, contact Lee and tell him so far everything is clear and then meet us at the elevators," said James.

"This day isn't going to get any better. I can tell," lamented Grantham.

James and Grantham stepped from the office and joined Jake and Steve. "We checked the hallways and gift shops this floor," reported Jake.

"You find anything?" asked James.

"Just more dead bodies," said Steve.

"Jesus, okay, let's get over to the elevator."

The four men made their way to the main elevators where Kirkland met them.

 "Lee's in communication with the fire chief, and I told him to watch for our evidence crew. He's going to radio us as soon as Bobby and Jessalee get here. So what are we doing? We going up?" asked Kirkland.  James turned to Grantham.

"What about it, Richard?"

Grantham held the keys up as if to offer them to James, "I don't mind waiting with Lee," he said as he pushed the button to call the elevator. "I mean you guys see this kind of shit everyday. I don't like dead bodies," said the manager.

"Yeah, it's just another day on the job for Mike and I here," said James as the elevator arrived filled with several dead bodies inside piled on top of each other.

"Son of a bitch!" shouted Grantham as he backed away. Jake and Steve moved in quickly. Steve ran his RAE unit over the elevator car. "It's clear."

"I guess this means we're taking the stairs," lamented James as he gestured to Grantham to lead them on.

The five men made their way to the twelfth floor. Stepping around a sea of dead bodies along the way. Bellhops, old women in their jewels clutching the walls or door handles of their rooms in an attempt to get away from whatever it was that took their lives from them. All of their eyes were wide open and their mouths were twisted into a shocked final gasp. "God, they're everywhere," said Grantham.

"What the hell do you think happened, Tom?" asked Kirkland.

"I haven't a clue Mike, but it reminds me of that case in the seventies remember? The American Legion meeting at the Bellevue Hotel where practically everyone there was killed? It was blamed on the air conditioning system."

"Whatever this is, it isn't air conditioning," said Steve firmly.

Finally arriving on the twelfth floor, James could hear a piano being played. The men looked at one another.

"Is that someone singing?" asked Kirkland.

James nodded and looked at Grantham who seemed to be as bewildered as everyone else. As they made their way around the corner, large black double doors with gold numbers came into view. Looming ominously at the end of the hallway, James felt as if any moment the doors would fly open and a decomposed carcass of Virgina Rappe would stumble into the hallway. Her eyes gone, cockroaches falling from her knotted twisted remaining hair, the famous Coke bottle still where Fatty left it. The thoughts left him nervous and feeling like he was a pawn in some surreal game of chess. The music seemed to grow louder. Arriving at room 1219, James placed his ear next to the door.

"What is it, Tom?" asked Kirkland.

"I can't be sure, but I think it's The Beatles."

Grantham placed one of the skeleton keys inside the lock. The old tumblers clicked and unlocked.

"Step back Mr. Grantham, in fact everyone get back," whispered James, as he removed his gun from the holster and gently pushed the door open. The music filtered out into the hallway. James and Kirkland, guns drawn stepped inside room 1219. The music flowed from around the corner of the next room of the suite. James felt a ring of confidence, as it was indeed Beatles music. He recognized the song immediately from The White Album. It was Sexy Sadie.

James stepped around the corner and let his eyes adjust to the low light. From where he stood a king sized bed appeared in front of him as Kirkland raised his flashlight to guide their steps. "Mr. Grantham, wait at the door please," said James.

Grantham nervously stepped back into the hallway, standing between Jake and Steve. Eerily the music continued to flow out into the hall.

Kirkland aimed the beam of his light towards the bed. The flash of his light reflected on the wall mirror and blinded him for a moment.

James found the light switch to the room and clicked it. The room came to life as both Kirkland and James slowly approached the bed. Both slowly lowered their guns. The two seasoned detectives tried to comprehend what they saw.

Lying center of the bed was the naked body of a young female. With, as James had feared, a Coke bottle placed just where Fatty would have wanted it.

The music caught their attention as the record began to skip. "Sexy Sadie, you'll get yours yet."




Chapter Seven

Sexie Sadie


"Oh my god, Tom, she's got a swastika carved into her forehead," said Kirkland.

James leaned in close to examine the freshly cut Nazi symbol. "This is recent, Mike. Less than 24 hours recent," commented James.

"What do you think? Done with a straight razor?" inquired Kirkland.

"That would be my guess," said James as he found the source of the music. The small portable record player lay under the bed. Taking out his handkerchief, he pulled the player out into the open. James could see the worn and scratched record.

"Who the hell still listens to actual records anymore?" questioned James.

Pulling the plug from the wall there was a sudden pop and spark burst from the outlet, causing the overhead light to burn out. The sudden darkness added to the silence, increasing the uncomfortable feeling in the room.

"Great, first mood music now we got mood lighting."

"Or lack thereof," stated Kirkland as he clicked his flashlight back on and pointed it back at the victim.

"So are we to assume then, our killer wants us to think our victim here is Sexy Sadie or Virginia Rappe?" asked Kirkland.

"Well now that is the all important question isn't it, Mike?" stated James as he returned to his examination of the body. "You see he's giving us no less than three references here. We got Virginia Rappe, silent film actress who, under very mysterious circumstances ends up in this very room, the possible victim of the most sadistic of rape scenarios. Two, we got the song 'Sexy Sadie' playing which I believe is a reference to Susan Atkins."

"One of Manson's girls," said Kirkland. James nodded in agreement. "The one known to have stabbed Sharon Tate to death. Also I might add a victim of one of the most bizarre of crime scenes of the twentieth century."

"And third?" inquired Kirkland.

"Third, we got the swastika carved into her forehead."

"Another Manson reference."

"Which also ties in with our dead Nazi."

"As does the name in the song, Sexy Sadie," said Kirkland.

James looked confused for a moment. "I'm not sure I follow, Mike."

"The initials of the girl named in the song, 'SS.' "

"So what does Virgina Rappe have to do with any of this?"

James shook his head as he tried to comprehend it all. "God Mike, what the hell is this guy trying to tell us?" James felt as if his brain was going to burst.

"Our killer wants to dazzle us, Tom."

"Well I think it's safe to say, he's exceeded himself."

"Or herself," said Kirkland.

"Yes, foolish of us to excluded the fairer of the sexes."

Kirkland walked around the bed and aimed his flashlight across the body of the dead girl. James found himself feeling the same awkwardness as Kirkland when it came to having to get up close and personal on deceased women. Somehow even in the best of circumstances it always felt wrong to look.

"I know it's not your cup of tea Mike, but you better take a closer look at our victim's..." James hedged looking for the right word to describe the Coke bottle that had been firmly placed deep inside the girl.

"Prop?" quizzed Kirkland.

"Close enough."

Taking in a long deep breath he sighed. "We've got to get some lights back on in here Tom."

"Just do your best."

Looking closer than he cared, Kirkland's beam of light caught what appeared to be something written just above the bottle.

"Wait, I got something here. It looks like writing on her pubic area."

James moved closer. "Writing like on Amanda Carlyle?"

"Yep, she's got a tattoo also. It says Never Fink Mia—You think that's her name? Mia."

James thought hard on the wording. "Whether it is or isn't Mike, one thing is clear for certain. She's not supposed to tell who did this."

"Well I think killing her took care of that."

James sat down heavily in the chair at the foot of the bed. He ran his hands through this thick salt and pepper hair. "We've got a serial killer, Mike."

"That means this is beginning Tom."

Grantham called to them from the hallway, "Inspector?"

Both Kirkland and James looked up at one another having completely forgotten all about him.

"Yes?"

"Is there another dead body in there?"

"Fraid so," called James.

"Now what do we do?" asked Grantham.

"Mr. Grantham, it's okay you can come inside," said Kirkland.

"I'd rather not. I think I'll just hang out with the Hazmat guys if you don't mind."

James looked at Kirkland. They both smirked at Grantham's cowardly behavior. James gave a nod of his head telling Kirkland to sort it out for him. Kirkland handed James his flashlight and replaced his gun as he returned to join Grantham, Jake and Steve in the hallway.

"Looks like we are going to be here for a long time guys. Any chance you can give us some clearance, Steve, so we can get our CSI's up here?"

Waving his RAE around the hallway, Steve took in a deep breath. "As far as I can tell Mike, there's nothing poisonous in the air. I think you guys are good to go. Jake and I are going to go back downstairs and consult with our backup team. There has to be some kind of answer to all of this."

Kirkland agreed as he watched the two men slowly descend the stairs and then looked at Grantham and could see the thoughts bouncing about inside Grantham's mind. He could also see Richard Grantham wanted to ask the unthinkable question.

"What is it?"

"The body. Is it a woman?"

"Yes it is."

"Is it like it was in 1921?" Grantham asked with a hollow tone.

"It's worse."

Kirkland watched the hotel manager's eyes fill with fear. A fear that made him question, maybe he knew more than he was letting on.

"Richard, is there something you want to tell me? Maybe something more about Mr. Skylar?"

"No, Mr. Skylar, he's the best employee I've ever had. As I told you earlier, I never had any trouble with him. He's always courteous and kind to everyone."

"Would it be out of place for a young girl to be found in his room?" asked Kirkland.

Grantham blushed and hesitated. He gave a look to Kirkland as if he was telling tales out of school.

"Frankly, Detective Kirkland, no it's not out of place for Mr. Skylar to have a young woman come round. We always found it quite interesting that very attractive—and I do mean very attractive women—would be seen coming to the hotel to see him."

"Escorts?"

"Not on his salary. Look, I run a high-class hotel detective. I know the difference between escorts and prostitutes. None of the women coming here were either of those."

"So why do you find it interesting?" asked Kirkland.

"Come on the guy is old. It's just kinda funny to think at his age he's still getting his freak on. And I might add, he's doing it with the kind of women most of us never get a chance with. Gotta love that Viagra I guess"

Kirkland was really beginning to like Grantham. "So Richard, how many different girls do you think you've seen him with?"

"I don't know, maybe three or four."

"Does he see them more than once?"

Grantham began to squirm a bit. "I suppose so. I mean I'm not the guy's social secretary. But yeah, I've seen the same women in here more than once."

"Think you would remember any of them if you saw them again?"

"Sure. I think so," said Grantham.

"Then I'd like to ask you if you recognize the woman inside room 1219."

Grantham hesitated. "Do I have to?" he asked.

Kirkland put his hand on the manager's shoulder. "It would be a huge help to us all if you did." Grantham nodded and stepped inside the room.

"Now, just try to relax, she's going to be laying on the bed. Try to just look at her face okay?" stated Kirkland.

Stepping round the corner, Grantham froze momentarily as he saw the dead girl. His eyes went immediately to the Coke bottle.

"Oh my God."

"It's okay. Ignore that. Just look at her face," said James.

Stepping closer Grantham attempted to adjust his eyes as James flashed the beam of light on her face. Both Kirkland and James watched Grantham. In an instant they could tell from his reaction he recognized her.

"Who is she?" asked James.

Without warning Grantham began to shake and shoved Kirkland aside, running for the door. James quickly pulled his gun from the holster and ran in pursuit. Rising to his feet Kirkland followed.

"Richard, stop!"

"Mr. Grantham, don't run!" called Kirkland.

Grantham continued into the hallway and fell to his knees. Doubled over he began to throw up. James turned his head away trying to give the manager as much privacy as possible in what was, at best, an embarrassing moment. Wiping his mouth with the back of his shirtsleeve, Grantham tried to pull himself together. "I'm sorry, Inspector James."

"You scared us," said James as he replaced his gun.

Kirkland knelt down next to Grantham. "Was it one of the girls?"

Grantham shook his head no. "No it wasn't," he said as he tried to regain his composure.

"But you know her?"

Grantham nodded. "Yeah, she's my girlfriend's kid sister."

"What's her name?"

"Valerie Rivera."




Chapter Eight

Valerie Rivera


Kirkland and Grantham waited just inside the lobby entrance for Jessalee Rivera and her evidence crew to arrive while James stood guard over the crime scene twelve floors above them. Kirkland stared into space as Grantham paced back and forth mumbling to himself about how bad for business this would be.

"Would you stop pacing, you're making me dizzy," snapped Kirkland.

"Do you know how many people are dead in here detective?" shouted Grantham at Kirkland's seemingly disrespect, followed by an immediate apology. "Sorry, I didn't mean it, I just don't know what to say to Jessalee."

"You're not going to have to say anything. I will tell her," said Kirkland.




Kirkland hated to give a death notification. It was always hard and even worse when it's one of your own he thought. That was the one thing all cops agree on, you never get used to it. Standing at a stranger's door in the middle of the night. Ringing the bell. The porch light clicks on. A single mom, looking weary and overworked, peeks from behind the porch window. Housecoat and her hair in curlers, years of worry carved into her features, she knows something is wrong. The bad news comes. She swears she has misunderstood what the officer has said. Her hand covers her mouth. Her chin shakes and quivers, then the silent scream and finally the breakdown begins.

"Here she is," said Grantham as he nudged Kirkland. Kirkland forced a smile as he saw Jessalee approaching, he swallowed hard and cleared his throat as he began to walk towards her with Grantham following close behind.

Kirkland had always thought Jessalee Rivera was a very attractive woman. He always had noticed her. She was tall with brown eyes and a skin tone that easily tanned during the warm days of San Francisco.  Her hair was always in a ponytail. Kirkland longed to see it completely down and free. Today, her hair was black. Kirkland could have sworn yesterday it was brown with hues of purple in it. Like a chameleon, Jessalee always seemed to be blending in and changing with the current theme of the time. Not to say she wasn't her own woman. Kirkland had seen her take on several officers in serious confrontation. She refused to be treated like less a person, simply because she was a woman.

Aside from his normal male attraction to her, Kirkland always had a fondness for Jessalee Rivera. Together they had worked on many cases and he had always found her professional and to the point. Yet it was her sarcastic sense of humor that drew him to her. Often he had wanted to ask her out, but dating a co-worker was seriously frowned upon. He wasn't even sure if she ever was interested in him. Regardless if she was or wasn't, what he liked best about her was that she was equally kind and generous as she was pretty. A combination not usually found in most of the women of Kirkland's life. Sometimes a close friendship was far more rewarding than a sexual relationship.

"Darling," said Grantham as the three of them met at the lobby door.

And then there's Richard Grantham, thought Kirkland to himself. How does a young woman like Jessalee, an officer of the CSI become involved with a power player like Grantham? Their social circles would never cross.

"Mr. Grantham," replied Jessalee maintaining a professional tone. Kirkland was happy, not only was she being her usual professional self, but there seemed to be a hint of dissatisfaction in her voice. Maybe things weren't so good in Grantham's garden of sin after all, he mused.

"Hey Mike, Bobby will be joining us as soon as he finishes cataloging the evidence from the funeral home. What have we got? Why the hell is Hazmat here?" she asked setting down her evidence bag as Kirkland kept her at the door.

"That's fine Jessa, we're going to be upstairs on twelve. Thomas James is in charge," he said trying to make small talk before he dropped the bomb on her.

"This tied into the double 187 you guys had at the funeral home?" she asked as she knelt down and riffled through her evidence bag.

"We think so."

"Crap. Mike I left my bag of memory cards for my camera in the car. I'll be right back."

Kirkland placed his hand on her shoulder. "That's okay, let that go for now. Actually I need to talk to you privately before we go up. But before that Jessa, you need to know, that there are a lot of dead bodies in there. I mean a lot. Before you ask, we don't know what happened here yet."

Without hesitation, Jessalee responded with no hint of concern. Grabbing her evidence bag and placing it on her shoulder, the three of them walked to the manager's office. Jessalee looked around at the bodies in the lobby. From her point of view it had all the makings of something unspeakable.

"Why don't you use my office," offered Grantham. He stepped forward and unlocked the door, holding it open for both Jessalee and Kirkland. Jessalee stepped inside and Kirkland turned around to face Grantham, blocking him from following.

"Mr. Grantham, do you mind if I speak with Miss Rivera alone?" Grantham looked at Jessalee and then back to Kirkland and nodded. "Sure, no problem. You want me to wait here?"

"Actually Inspector James needed the power restored to room 1219."

"I'll take care of it," he said. Looking past Kirkland, Grantham smiled at Jessalee only to lose sight of her as Kirkland closed the door in his face. Stepping away Grantham cringed as he heard Kirkland turn the lock.

*   *   *


James was standing guard in the hallway leading to room 1219. The hotel seemed unnaturally quiet and as he looked down the hallway he could see the doors leading to rooms 1219, 1220 and 1221. The view gave him a chill. The scene became even more chilling, when he realized that the numbers on the doors had been numbered counterclockwise.

Waiting for Kirkland and the evidence collectors to show up seemed like an eternity. The silence was broken by the sound of labored breathing and a heavy footfall coming from the stairs. James slowly reached for his gun as the heavy breathing grew louder and closer. Seconds later a very winded Richard Grantham appeared at the landing. James felt relieved when he saw that it was the manager.

"Damn these stairs are going to be the death of me. Sorry to keep you in the dark, Inspector. Detective Kirkland told me you needed power restored to room 1219. I'm sorry I didn't realize it was out when I was up here earlier."

"No worries, you did have quite a shock. You going to be okay to go in there again?"

"Actually I won't have to. The fuse box for rooms 1219, 1220, and 1221 are all tied together in room 1221."

"You still use fuses?"

"Only in this part of the hotel. This is one of the original wings built in 1905. I'll have you up in running in just a few minutes," said Grantham as he made his way down the hall to room 1221. James watched Grantham walk along the far wall, avoiding the side that housed room 1219. Hesitating at room 1221, Grantham turned back to James.

"Inspector James."

"Yes?"

"Don't let Jessalee see her sister like that."

"Don't worry, we'll take good care of her," said James as he watched Grantham disappear into room 1221.

*   *   *


Kirkland sat on the edge of Grantham's desk trying to think of how he was going to break the news to Jessalee.

"So, alone at last Mike. You finally gonna ask me out?" joked Jessalee as she plopped down on the leather couch opposite of Kirkland.

Kirkland wanted to join in on the joking, and tried to be lighthearted.

"What about Grantham?" he quizzed.

"What about Dick?" she retorted.

Well, that's direct isn't it, thought Kirkland to himself? "So things aren't going so well between you guys?"

"Never was much between me and him, Mike, literally," she quipped with a quick hand version of a rim shot on the desk corner. "Oh she's on today!" said Jessalee, admiring her own clever quick wit. Kirkland smiled and squirmed a bit. "Thank you folks, I'll be here all week," she added as her levity subsided, but she couldn't help noticing Kirkland's silence. "So what's up Mike, since I know you didn't really ask me into Dick's office to show his fake leather sofa—a good time. What the hell happened here?"

Kirkland nodded, and forced a fake smile. "Valerie's dead." There he said it. Two short words— could they change someone's life in an instant?

"My sister?" said Jessalee as if she misunderstood him.

Apparently they can, thought Kirkland. "Yes, Jessa. I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"We really don't know, but I have to take you off this case."

"Is she upstairs, Mike?"

"Yeah."

"Can I see her?"

"Not yet Jessa, it's really bad. I'm not going to lie to you."

"Did the same thing happen to her, as everyone else?"

"No, your sister was murdered."

Kirkland watched Jessalee closely. So far no quivering chin, no silent scream, no tears. She's strong, he thought. She won't break down until she's alone. He looked for anything that would allow him to help her during this moment.

"We're going to need your help Jessa, because neither James or I have ever seen anything like this."

"Okay, I'm listening," she said remaining calm.

"Your sister has a tattoo."

"No, that's not right. Valerie hated tattoos. She used to give me shit for mine. How do you know it's her?" she asked, biting her lower lip.

"Richard identified her."

"Richard? He's never even met my sister?" she exclaimed.

"Are you sure? I mean he knew her right away. He told us, his words exactly were: it's my girlfriend's kid sister, Valerie Rivera."

"He couldn't have met Valerie. Valerie and I haven't talked to or seen each other in three months."

"Why?"

Jessalee looked around the room as if she was searching for her answer.

"Why Jessa?"

"We had a fight."

"You had an argument?"

"No a fight, you know a hair pulling, bitch slapping smack down."

"Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"No love like sisterly love," she said, still trying to keep her sarcasm in tact. "Look Mike, the truth of the matter is, Valerie and I never really got along very well. I didn't care for the crowd she started running with, I told her I didn't want her around these people, she didn't like it. She mouthed off some shit to me and I popped her."

"And she popped you back."

"Once or twice, bitch hits hard too. Anyway, that was the last time I saw her, until I ran into her at a club last night. She was still hanging out with the same dyke we argued about before."

"This was at The Cellar?" asked Kirkland.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Bouncer give you guys a hard time?"

"Just Valerie and what's her name. He made them leave."

"What's her friend's name?"

"I don't know Mike, I didn't stop to ask her how she liked licking my sister." Kirkland could see the news was finally taking its toll on her. Jessalee's face became flushed and without warning she screamed, "FUCK!" as she jumped up and faced the wall, fighting her urge to breakdown. Kirkland quickly came to her side and held her. She threw her arms around him and held him tightly. He had always wondered how it would feel to be this close to her, but not by means of having to deliver such heart-wrenching news. Estranged or not, Kirkland could tell that Jessalee loved her sister.

I'm sorry, Mike," she apologized. "It's not like me to be like this."

"Jessa, don't say another word to anyone about what we talked about in here, you got it?" instructed Kirkland as he stroked her hair and held her in his arms. "Why am I a suspect?" she asked wiping the tears from her eyes. "No, but I think your sister and her friend were both killed by the same killer."

*   *   *


Looking down at the empty hallway James shivered at the silence of the hotel, although eerily quiet, it seemed somehow peaceful. James leaned against the wall and tried to relax and sort through the day's events. Two young beautiful girls found dead in the weirdest of places. Both victims with strange tattoos placed above their vaginas. Vagina. How he hated the sound of that word. There was nothing pleasant about it. Even today the word sounded vulgar. He wondered what it must have been like having to hear it in the courtroom during Fatty's trial. James' mind began to wander. Wander to the infamous weekend nearly a century before.

Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle books rooms 1219, 1220 and 1221 for a weekend celebration of his new multimillion-dollar contract with Producer Adolph Zukor. It's going to be a weekend of good old-fashioned Hollywood style debauchery. A weekend, filled with bootleg booze, broads and wild sex. The September weather is gorgeous. The warm, slight breeze caresses the curtains on the open windows. Voices call to one another between the rooms. The haunting voice of Al Bowlly, singing Midnight, the stars and you, was playing on the Victrola.

James began to realize he wasn't daydreaming, his attention was turned to the scratchy sounds of an old record playing. He turned and looked down the hallway to room 1219, where the music was coming from. Slowly the door opened. The sound of the music grew louder. A man dressed in a black tuxedo stepped from the doorway of room 1220. His face covered in black make-up with a white mouth, eyes and white gloves. The man looked at James and said nothing as he stepped into room 1219.

Startled, James looked around. He wondered if someone was trying to play a joke on him. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn he just saw Al Jolson leave room 1220 and go into room 1219. Standing alone at the end of the hall James called out. "Hello? Mr. Grantham?" Feeling a bit spooked, James turned on his radio and unsnapped his gun. "Hello?" Feeling uncomfortable, he began to walk down the hallway towards the open door of room 1219. As he passed each room, he, could hear hushed laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, heavy breathing, the sounds of sex. Whispers called to James to join them. Walking closer to room 1219, the whispers became louder. The sound of the music increased, as did the heavy breathing.

Standing outside the door of room 1219, James tried to collect his thoughts as he listened intently.

"Midnight, with the stars and you."

The lights in the hallway began to dim, as the music in the room swelled.

"Midnight, and a rendezvous"

No longer able to resist the temptation to look inside room 1219, James pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"Your eyes held a message tender"

James strained to adjust his eyes as quickly as he could to the low light. The room was filled with cases of champagne stacked on top of one another, buckets of ice with chilled bottles of Coca-Cola, tables full of food, balloons, and streamers. A banner was pinned over the entrance of the bedroom door, it read,

"Fuck Her Fatty!"

The soft glow of chandelier light filled the bedroom entrance, while the music was coming from inside the room. Making his way into the bedroom, James could see the room was filled with people. Standing on a platform table in front of the windows leading to the balcony was Al Bowlly in white tuxedo. His jet-black hair was combed straight back and his eyes sparkled as he sang into the old world microphone.

"I surrender, all my love to you" 

James moved closer to the center of the room where Jolson was standing at the foot of the bed looking down. The breathing became louder.

"Midnight, brought us sweet romance"

Standing next to Jolson was a young Herman Kritzler in his Nazi uniform.

"I know all my whole life through" 

Working his way closer to the bedside, James saw Amanda Carlyle seated in a chair next to Kritzler. She was holding a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, her attention on the bed. Standing against the wall was a tall man in pinstriped suit. A diamond lapel pin with initials, W.D.T sparkled in the smoke filled room. He watched emotionlessly with his hands in his pockets. Two women stood flanking him, their arms each hooked through his respectively.  One woman was blonde, the other brunette. The blonde was holding a handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing tears. Embroidered on her hankie were the initials, M.M.M. The brunette slowly licked her blood red lips and gasped with pleasure as she listened and watched.

"I'll be remembering you"

The sounds of bedsprings strained to the rhythmic thrusts, creating a voice of an invisible chorus that chanted, "Fuck her Fatty!" The breathing and whispers mixed with the velvet tones of Al Bowlly.

"Whatever else I do"

James looked to the opposite side of the bed, where another well-dressed handsome man in an all white suit sat in a chair. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair. His long fingers laced together. His olive toned skin glistened from the heat of the bedside passion. Crossing his legs, he remained emotionless as he watched the event on the bed. The man's attention was not like the others. While they were completely focused on the bed, his focus seemed to be on everyone else. He stopped watching everyone long enough to remove a book from his inside pocket. He looked over at James. Acknowledging his presence with a nod, he scribbled a note and suavely returned the book to his pocket. He then resumed his focus back to the others in the room. James pushed his way to the edge of the bed and looked down to see the obese figure grunting and ramming his hips into what James could only imagine would be the petite body of Virginia Rappe.

"Fuck her Fatty!" bellowed the crowd of voyeurs. "How am I doin Mabel?" grunted Fatty as he continued his relentless sexual assault. The brunette unhooked her arm from the tall gentleman and knelt down next to Fatty and smiled, as she pulled a Coke from the bucket of ice. "You're doing fine Fatty, just fine," replied Mabel in a soft, yet, encouraging tone.

Standing in the corner alone was the one and only little tramp. His worn bowler hat held up to his mouth. Face, bleached white in stage make-up causing his features to glow in the dim light of the room. His greasepaint Hitler moustache was wet and glistened from perspiration. His teeth chewed and chattered on the rim of his hat as he watched with anticipated ecstasy. "Give him the Coke Mabel, give it to him," he said giggling.

Screaming in orgasmic grunts the woman began to shout and cry out, "He- he- he's kill-kill-killing me! Plu-pluh- please- muh-muh-make heh-heh- him stuh -stuh stop!"

James reached out to stop the violation. Kritzler blocked James with his riding crop.

"Nein! Das Frauline likes it."

James shoved the riding crop aside and grabbed the meaty shoulder of the man on top of the girl. Pulling him away long enough to see the girl wasn't Virginia Rappe at all, but the sweet love of his youth, Julie Jackson.

James stood frozen in disbelief and shock. It couldn't be Julie, but in his heart he knew it was her. Those brown eyes staring up at him as they had many times before. Only this time they were pleading and yet ashamed. He looked down at her naked body and could see that like the other victims, Julie also had a tattoo directly over her genitalia. He tried to read it. His eyes widened as he took in the tattooed script. Julie turned her face away and attempted to hide her sex with a bruised forearm. The words read, "The Desolate One"




Chapter Nine

The Desolate One


"Help me," whimpered the tiny voice.

"Help me please," it cried again.

Lying on the floor James opened his eyes with a sudden start. The dimly lit chandelier glowed above him as he looked up and focused. He now remembered he was in the Arbuckle suite. I must have passed out, James thought to himself, rolling over and grabbing the edge of the bed to help himself stand up. As he pulled himself up his heart leapt—he was face to face with the dead body of Jessalee's sister, Valerie. Her blank eyes stared at James as he stood up. Watching him, her swastika carved forehead glistened from the wet blood, which had slowly dripped down her face, giving the appearance of tears.

"Puhleese help me," sobbed the tiny voice once again catching James's attention. His head was still in a fog as he tried to gain his wits and find his radio. Reaching down to his hip, it was nowhere to be found. The crying voice called out to him again from what sounded like the next room. Slowly making his way toward the living room, he found he needed to brace himself against the wall. His legs were still not quite ready to cooperate with him. As James looked into the living room he could feel Valerie's dead eyes watching him leave. He half expected it to be her calling out to him. Staggering into the living room James expected to see where the noise was coming from. But the room was empty and still.

"Hello?" he called.

"Please help me, please," the tiny voice cried in an innocent tone.

"Where are you?" called James back.

"Here!" pleaded the voice, redirecting James' attention to outside the room.

Moving to the door, he stepped into the hallway. Looking across the hall he noticed the door to room 1223 slightly ajar. Reaching down he found the grip of his gun, which allowed him to regain his confidence. Slowly James stepped across the hall and pushed open the door of room 1223. The room was piled with dead bodies on top of dead bodies. There were easily 12 or 13 people inside the room. Some were on the floor, others were slumped in chairs, more were on the bed. James looked down and saw tiny fingers wiggling underneath the pile of bodies on the floor. His eyes widened as he quickly knelt down to the floor.

"Oh my god, it's a child," he said as he began to shove the corpses aside to get to the child. Finally he was able to pull to his surprise was a little girl. She sobbed as she threw her arms around his neck.

"It's okay honey, I got you. It's okay now," he whispered as he held her. Picking her up, she couldn't have been any older than eight years old. James stepped back into the hallway, where he saw his radio on the floor near the door of room 1219. Bending over he quickly snatched it up and radioed for help.

"Mike you there!"

"Yeah I'm downstairs with Jessalee, did Grantham get your power back on up there?"

"I think so, Mike I need you up here fast. I found a little girl."

"We found some kids down here too. It's devastating."

"No Mike, she's not dead. She's alive! Get someone up here with some oxygen immediately," commanded James.

"It's okay sweetheart, help is on the way," he said, only to feel her grip her arms around his neck even tighter.

"So what's your name sweetie? It's okay, you can tell me I'm a police officer. I promise you won't have to go back in there again. Hey I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours, mine's Tom."

"Jordan."

"Jordan? That's a pretty name. So Jordan were you staying in the room I found you in?" She quickly nodded and sniffed, rubbing her nose.

"Are you staying here with your mommy and daddy?

"Uh-huh," she sniffed.

"Jordan do you remember what happened before everyone fell asleep?"

"They aren't asleep, they're dead!" she shouted as she sobbed again.

"Oh honey, it's okay, I'm sorry."

"I want to go before he comes back!" she cried as gripped her arms tightly around James' neck. Her desperation caused him to wonder what had her so frightened.

"Before who comes back Jordan?"

"The Pig Man!"




Chapter Ten

The Pig Man


James handed Jordan to Jessalee as the CSI placed the oxygen mask on the little girl's face.

"Oh my god Tom, where did you find her?" Jessalee asked as she placed Jordan on her lap.

"She was in room 1223 under a pile of bodies, if you can believe that."

"That's probably what saved her life. She was close to the floor protected by everyone else that was on top of her," Jessalee said as she watched the girl gulp in the fresh pure air. "Not too fast honey."

Kirkland entered the room and saw Jessalee and James tending to the little girl. "Jessa, sorry to interrupt, but we're ready for you in 1219."

"I'll take her, Jessa," said James as he reached for Jordan. The little girl eagerly responded to James and curled up into his arms. "Jessa is going to be right back okay darling?" asked James as he kept the oxygen mask to her face. Jordan nodded her approval as Jessalee stood and winked at her.

Kirkland and Jessalee crossed the hallway and into room 1219. "I'm sorry to have to ask this of you Jessa, but we need to be sure it's Valerie."

"It's okay, Mike, I want to know as much as you do."

A cold chill ran across Jessalee's forearms as she stepped into the bedroom. She exhaled a sigh of relief as she saw that Kirkland had been kind enough to place a sheet over her sister's body.

"Can I pull it back?" she asked softly.

Kirkland nodded and gently caressed her shoulder to let her know he would be standing only inches away. Jessalee slowly reached down and curled her fingers around the edge of the sheet and then pulled it back in a fashion that was almost dreamlike. As the sheet came away from Valerie's face, Jessalee saw her sister dead before her. Kirkland watched intently from behind her.

"You okay Jessa?"

Jessalee nodded silently as she let the cold hard truth of her sister's death sink in. "Where's the tattoo, Mike?" she asked as she ignored the freshly carved swastika.

"Further down."

Jessalee pulled the sheet down her sister's body, slowly exposing her breasts and finally stopping at her genitalia. "Never Fink Mia?"

"We were hoping it meant something to you. Does it?"

Jessalee shook her head no. "For all I know, Mike it could be the name of another girlfriend."

"Was your sister exclusively a lesbian?"

Jessalee shot a long cold stare at Kirkland.

"I'm sorry, I know it's a rude question to ask but I had to ask."

Jessalee pulled the sheet back to its original position. As she covered her sister's face a single tear fell from her cheek and landed on the sheet quickly being absorbed away by the fabric. "Truth is, Mike, I really don't have a clue. Isn't that sad to not even know your own sister?"

"At the moment we're thinking it has something to do with Kritzler, since this was his room and he's a former Nazi. Hence the artwork on her forehead."

Jessalee turned away from her sister's body and walked directly up to Kirkland and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Take me out of here, Mike."

Kirkland held her close once again. She gently kissed his cheek, pulled away and made her way back to where James and the little girl were.

As Kirkland followed her, he could tell by the look on James' face, there was new information. "What's going on?"

"Jordan has been telling me of the monster she sees here every night," he said in a matter of fact tone.

 "The pig man," Jordan announced to Kirkland and Jessalee.

James knelt down next to Jordan. He brushed her dark brown bangs from her eyes. "Honey, tell Jessa and Mike about the pig man?"

"He comes out at night."

"You've seen him more than once?" asked Kirkland.

"Uh-huh."

"Where do you see him?"

Jordan pointed a small finger straight into the air. Everyone looked at the ceiling. "You see him up there?" asked Jessalee.

"There!" said Jordan pointing directly to air vent. "He comes at night and watches me in my bed from up there."

A cold shiver came over the three of them as they listened to the girl tell them about the pig man. James continued, "Jordan why do you call him the pig man?"

"He has a pig head and a mans body. His eyes are big and his snout is bigger and black. He breathes hard and crawls real slow.

"Can you remember anything else about him?"

"He wears a cross."

"A cross?" asked James with a confused tone.

"Not a Jesus cross, but a funny looking cross."

The three of them looked at one another for any idea that might help the situation. Kirkland reached into his pocket and removed his note pad. "Can you draw it for us, Jordan?" he asked holding the pad. Jordan nodded, and took the pen and pad from him and began to draw what she had seen.




James swallowed hard as it was apparent Jordan was drawing a German Iron Cross. "Jordan, did the cross have something in the center of it?" She quickly nodded. "Was it something like this?" asked James as he took the pad and pen from her.




Jordan looked directly into James eyes. "Yes."

"We've got to get her out of here. Jessa can you take her?"

"Sure. You want to come with me darling. I know where they have the best ice cream," she said as she took Jordan up into her arms.

"Are Tom and Mike coming, too?" she asked innocently.

"Sure we are honey, we just want to make sure the pig man is gone, is that okay?" asked James. Once again she nodded her approval and placed her head on Jessalee's shoulder.

"You want to radio down to Bobby and send him up here to meet me? I don't really want to walk down all these stairs and let her see ... Just tell him I will meet him at the top of the stairs," she said as she walked away. She then stopped for a moment and turned to Kirkland. "Mike?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of my sister please."

"I promise Jessa. Are you coming back?" he inquired.

"No, I've seen enough death today."

James instantly got Bobby on the radio and told him Jessalee needed an escort down to the lobby. Mike forced a smile and waved to Jessalee and Jordan as he watched them walk to the landing of the stairs.

Once Jordan and Jessalee were out of earshot, James put his hand on Kirkland's shoulder. "Son of bitch Mike, that old Nazi has been crawling around inside the air ducts, and wearing his uniform no less."  Kirkland shivered from the image in his mind of 90-year-old Hermann Kritzler crawling into the airshafts wearing his black leather riding boots, SS uniform and moving around the hotel, what was he doing?

"Let's find out what Hermann was up to."

*   *   *


The two detectives turned around and faced the entrance to room 1219. As they started to go inside, James hesitated.

"Something wrong, Tom?"

Flashes of Fatty raping Julie while being watched by a host of celebrity ghosts crossed his mind's eye. "No I'm okay," assured James as he and Kirkland stepped inside 1219. Their attention was turned to the low muffled sounds of cheering and chanting.

"Do you hear that?"

"Yeah. Maybe someone left a television on," said Kirkland. Standing in the center of the living room James looked across into the bedroom where Valerie's dead body seemed to be looking back at him. Calling to him as he stepped into the room, James said, "At this point, Mike nothing is going to surprise me. Looking down at Valerie's dead, naked body, he tried to imagine what the killer was trying to tell him. Something instantly came to his mind. "Mike, you think Kritzler did this to her before he was killed?" Joining James in the bedroom, Kirkland looked down at her.

"It is certainly possible, which of course if he's our man, then that means his death is a suicide."

"You cut off your own dick, get your electrical cord tied around your neck and your hands behind your back bound with barbwire?"

"I've seen crazier shit, Tom."

"Something's missing."

"That noise, it's louder in here," said Kirkland as he listened for the clattering and chanting. "If I didn't know better I'd say it was coming from the closet," he said removing his gun and crossing to the door. Slowly pulling it open the two men could hear the clattering and chanting much more clearly now. Confused they stared at each other.

"Seig heil! Seig heil! SEIG HEIL!" 

The sounds of the crowd chanting their loyalty to Hitler filled the room. The voices of what was clearly a group of men were firm, steady and filled with purpose. A mighty cheer that rivaled the sound of a sporting event resonated through the crowd. These were men who had loyally confirmed their vow to serve the most evil man in the twentieth century.

James looked at Kirkland to be certain he wasn't the only one who was hearing the voices. Kirkland nodded that he too was hearing the Nazi propaganda. Stepping closer to the closet they could hear the voice of Adolph Hitler speaking with great authority as he took the stage. A hollow clattering sounds accompanied his voice.

"What was that noise?"

The closet smelled of old clothes. Dust and the faint scent of almonds filled their nostrils. Looking up James saw a small chain attached to a light bulb dangling in front of him. He pulled it and closet came to life. Pushing the clothes to the right side, revealed a second coupler that held the hanger pole in place. "What have we here?" said James as he pointed the strange find to Kirkland. James lifted the pole and placed it into the coupler that was higher, causing the pole to be lop-sided.

Looking back to the left wall James saw the reflection of hinges. It was a false wall. James pressed his ear to the wall in the tiny cramped closet. The sounds of Hitler and the clattering were coming from the other side. Pushing the wall, it easily creaked open.

"Oh man Mike, it's a fucking crawlspace," he said, reaching toward his hip and getting a grip on his pistol, it gave him a small amount of relief and restored his confidence to continue on. Squeezing through the small opening followed by Kirkland, they both found themselves in the place where Hermann Kritzler truly lived. The room was long and narrow, only about three and half feet wide, but easily 12 to 15 feet deep. At the very end facing James was a banner of a swastika, which stretched the full length of the wall. At the bottom of the swastika banner was an old gray military trunk. Each sidewall sported framed photos of Hitler and other high-ranking Nazi officials. James saw that behind himself, the room went the nearly the same distance, however that wall was obscured by the flickering image of Hitler. The clattering noise now made sense—It was a film projector. The light from the projector lamp gave that side of the room a strobe effect. But who the hell turned it on, wondered James as he switched it off.

A folding chair sat in front of the projector with a makeshift sheet serving as a movie screen. You couldn't let it go, could you Hermann? You had to have a place where you could still be Hermann Kritzler the Nazi. So you built yourself a little shrine where you could keep worshipping Hitler. You sat right there in that chair watching your films, remembering the good old days. James thought.

Kirkland shook his head in disgust as he looked around the crawlspace and took in the propaganda— the swastika banner, photos and Nazi treasures hidden away by Kritzler  "How does this happen, Tom? How does a guy like this manage to avoid justice, live right under our noses, collect social security?" questioned Kirkland.

"He gets a job where he's invisible. I mean who pays attention to a guy who pushes a broom?"

Kirkland angrily turned away and kicked the film projector. It rocked and fell over ripping the sheet exposing a secret exit. Kirkland looked up behind the projector. "Up there Tom, see the make-shift ladder? That's the opening to the airshafts. That's where he got in and out."

James looked and could see the homemade ladder rising up to the ceiling. A crude hole had been cut into the air duct. A hole that was just large enough for a man to crawl through.

"I'm going up to have a look," said Kirkland.

"Be careful will ya? I'll have a look down here," said James as he turned back to the trunk, making his way back to the crawlspace. The framed photos on the wall gave him the chills. There was a young Hermann Kritzler shaking hands with Hitler. Next to that photo was another of him sitting and laughing with Himmler and Heydrich in an outside cafe.

"How's it going? You see anything up there?" inquired James.

"Not so far. But I'm also trying to not break my neck by falling off this rickety ladder. What about you?  Anything of interest?"

"Well, from the photos on the wall, Herr Kritzler it seems was a member of the inner circle. There's pictures of him down here with Hitler and Himmler."

Reaching the trunk, James knelt down and opened it. Inside were several more photos as well as a small swastika flag wrapped around something solid and square. Pulling the swastika off, it revealed an old metal box. James gently opened it. Inside was a photo of Kritzler and another SS soldier. Kritzler was proudly holding up some kind of old hammer. He turned the photo over to the back, which simply read, Afrika 1941.

Underneath the photo was a small can of film marked,

"Der Platz, in dem Engel nicht treten."  James tried to make out the old German writing, but it was no use. He would have to have it translated. Then he remembered Dr. Roberts would know. Flipping open his cell phone he scrolled down until he found the pathologists phone number. He pressed send and while waiting for an answer continued examining the remaining contents of the trunk. Under the film can was Kritzler's SS uniform along with a black gas mask. Holding it up, it suddenly made sense to him.

The Pig Man, he said to himself in a matter of fact tone. Lawrence Roberts answered on the other end.

"This is Lawrence," he said curtly.

"Dr. Roberts, it's Thomas James. I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm at the crime scene in The Aleris Hotel. Seems our Nazi was living in the famous Fatty Arbuckle suite."

"No kidding," said the doctor in an annoyed tone.

"Anyway, there's a lot of Nazi paraphernalia here, including a film can with some German writing on it. I was wondering if you spoke any German and could translate it?"  James could hear a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "Okay, what is it?"

"You have to bear with me, because it's in old German script, you know what I'm just going to spell it for you," said James as he slowly spelled out the unknown language to Roberts.

"That should be it."

"Hold on, I'm writing it down." There was a long silence on the line. Long enough for James to think the call had been dropped.

"Doc? You still there?"

"Yes."

"Were you able to figure out what it says?"

"You're sure that's all the letters? There's nothing else?" quizzed the doctor. James looked at the film can again, top and bottom, nothing other than the sticker on the face of the can.

"That's it, can you tell me what it says?"  After another long pause, Roberts finally spoke.

"It says, 'The place in which Angels will not Tread.' "




Chapter Eleven

The Place Where Angels Will Not Tread


James silently stared at the film can. He ran the words that Lawrence translated for him over and over in his mind. The place in which angels will not tread? What can that mean? he wondered, slipping the film canister into his coat pocket. Looking up to the airshaft, James called to Kirkland, "Well what's the verdict, Mike? Can you see anything up there?"

"There's something it's just around the corner, but I can't tell from here. I'm going to have to get inside this thing to find out," he said as the airshaft began to groan from his weight against it.

"Doesn't sound too safe Mike, maybe we should wait."

"No, I just need to climb in a few feet. What ever it is, it's just around the corner, Tom," said Kirkland as he tried to hoist himself up inside the shaft. Once again the metal groaned a defiant warning.

"Hold the ladder would you?" asked Kirkland as he once again tried to lift himself inside. Holding the ladder in place James looked up and could see the securing brackets slipping as dust began to billow down from the ceiling.

"Hurry up Mike, before this thing comes crashing down and kills both of us," said James watching Kirkland slip inside the airshaft and disappear. The sounds of his knees hitting the air shaft was similar to a heartbeat, with each crawl came a thump against the metal followed by the recoiling of the shaft itself.

"It's another ladder, looks like it leads up to a hatch of some sort," Kirkland called back to James.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, there's some kind of pale blue looking granules all over the place. Looks like rat poison," said Kirkland as he made his way from the shaft to the ladder.

"I'm going up Tom," he said as he climbed up the ladder and to the attic roof hatch.

"Keep your radio on, Mike," James yelled up to him.

"Way ahead of you," he said adjusting his radio volume then reached up and slid the old bolt lock to the side. Kirkland then pushed open the hatch door and looked inside.

"You see anything?" called James.

"Yeah, there's another room up here. It's huge. Looks like it runs the length of this part of the hotel. God it smells like stale almonds up here, too," he said climbing through the hatchway door and into the attic loft.

James turned and walked back to the trunk and started sorting through the rest of Hermann Kritzler's Nazi treasures again. There were more photo albums and different types of female costume type jewelry.




Kirkland pulled his pocket flashlight and clicked it. The small beam of light revealed a large looming mass in the middle of the loft. Standing up, Kirkland made his way over to it. Looking up he could see it nearly touched the ceiling, which had to be at least 15 feet above him.

"What the hell is that?" he asked himself as he closed in. He could now see it was covered by a tarp. As he stepped closer his foot kicked an empty metal tin, which startled him, then rolled away. Just as he reached the tarp covered mass, his flashlight died.




As James searched through the trunk he found a large black photo album. Slowly he pulled the cover back and the album creaked announcing its age. On the first page James saw several black and white photos. From years of watching television, Hollywood movies and growing up post World War II, he knew exactly what these photos were. They were pictures of holocaust victims, mostly young girls in various stages of undress and abuse. These photos appeared to be slightly different from the ones seen so often on the History Channel. These pictures appeared to be much more personal. The kind you take when you want to capture a memory forever.

Looking down to the bottom of the page James saw a photo of Kritzler standing proudly next to another Nazi and a blonde female guard, a woman who had the most intense eyes he had ever seen. The girl was showing a slight smirk as she rested her arm on Kritzler's shoulder. Kritzler himself was mugging to the camera as the taller Nazi smiled a smile that betrayed his uniform. Under the photo was scribbled in faded black ink. "Mengele, Hermann, und mein Irma–Auschwitz 1943"

"Irma Grese and Joseph Mengle," whispered James. "Just like Lawrence said."




"Come on!" said Kirkland shaking the flashlight in a vain attempt to extract some final life out of the exhausted batteries. Reaching into his pants pocket he found his Zippo lighter. Clicking the lid and striking the spark actuator the flame came to life. As he held the firelight close to the mass he could see it was boxes and crates covered by the tarps. Lifting the tarp up Kirkland saw there was writing on the side of the crates. Placing his lighter close enough for him to read the writing on one of the crates it was clear to him that what was printed on the side of it was not English. Is that German writing? he wondered.




James turned to the next page. This one was marked with a note in a space that allowed for the album owner to record the events of the photographs. It was in German and read, Sommer Der Leib 1967. James looked long and hard at the words. Slowly he said the words aloud, sounding it out like someone just learning to read. "So mer, so mer...Der?...there? Sommer there? Leib? Wait doesn't leib mean love?" he said to himself. Then suddenly like an arrow between the eyes he said it aloud. "Summer of love!" Looking down, James saw several photos of young girls all in their late teens or early twenties. Next to each photo was a lock of hair taped to the page. On the opposite page was Kritzler in his uniform kneeling down posing next to an open furnace.

"Mother of God," whispered James to himself as saw Kritzler in his element. Right here under our very noses. But who took the picture? wondered James as he flipped the pages, each page showed more girls and the years going by. The last page was marked with the year 2011. James's radio beeped again causing him to jump.

"Tom, it's Bobby, we need you down here."

"Are Jessalee and the little girl okay?" James replied.

"Yeah, they're fine, Jessa took her to the hospital. I'm down in the basement. We found something."

"What do you mean you found something?  Found what?"

"We found one of the hotels old incinerators."

 "Is it full of human bones?"

"Yeah. Oh my God, how did you know?"

"I'm coming down."




Slowly and methodically Kirkland stepped around the crates, his lighter had gone out. He now had to feel his way. He also realized he was now into what was rapidly becoming a maze of towering crates. His foot kicked more and more empty cans.  He could hear in the darkness those cans colliding with other empty cans as they rolled in all directions around the room. His next step caused him to slip on one of the empty tins and fall face first onto the dust-covered floor.

"Shit!" he cursed as he heard the tin rolling away from him and drop down through the attic hatch. Seconds later there was a loud clang as it landed below.

James looked up at the sound. What the hell was that? he wondered. "Mike is that you?" Only the sound of the escaped tin can answered James as it continued to roll until it reached the open spot on the airshaft and dropped to the floor below. James stood up as the tin stopped just short of his feet.

Kirkland struggled in the dark until he found his Zippo and flicked it once more for light. As he lay face down, he could see one of the cans he had been kicking and slipping on.  It was right side up and the writing, which was bold and black, was in German. Kirkland knew exactly what this was, and what it was used for. He swallowed hard as he read the words.

James reached down and picked the tin up. Reading the side of it his face became flushed with horror, this was a German word he didn't need translating. There in bold letters the tin read, "Zyklon B".

James pulled his radio from his hip and called Kirkland. "Mike what's going on up there? You okay?"

Kirkland slowly stood up realizing the horror that surrounded him. Cases and crates full of Zyklon B filled the attic. His radio beeped again. "Mike, answer me. Mike if you don't answer I'm coming up."

Kirkland took his radio out and answered. "Tom, don't come up! You've got to get out of here and now."

"What is it, Mike?"

"The attic, it's full of cases and crates of Zyklon B, and I'm standing in the middle of it all. There must be thousands of crates up here."

James froze as he stared into the radio. Looking at the empty tin James's body shook with fear as it all now made sense.

 "That's what Kritzler was doing in the airshafts at night. Crawling around placing these cans near the open vents of the rooms. He's turned the hotel into a 27 floor gas chamber."

James clicked his radio. "Mike, don't move! I'm calling for help! Steve Vermillion, come in." Seconds later James's radio beeped an answer.

"This is Vermillion."

"Steve, it's Thomas James."

"Yeah Tom, what have you got?"

"It's Zyklon B, Steve! That's what we're dealing with!"

 "Are you sure?"

"It's everywhere! It's in all the ventilation shafts. We need you up here right away. Detective Kirkland is trapped in the hotel attic surrounded by it!" said James.

"Oh Jesus. You better be careful handling that, it's not only lethal on contact, but it's explosive anywhere near fire! Jake and I are on our way up!" replied Steve.

Kirkland flicked his lighter again, but to no avail. It had already exhausted all the fuel. He would have to save what little he had left to get himself to another door or wall and out of this maze of crates. His radio beeped. Reaching for it in the darkness it fell from his holster. "Son of a bitch!"

"Mike, hang on I'm coming up!" said James. Kirkland could hear the sounds of James crawling up the ladder to make his way inside the airshaft. Kirkland put his hands out straight as he tried to find his way in the darkness. Suddenly he felt as if he was in open space. Throwing his hands back and forth he slowly staggered across the cavernous attic of The Aleris Hotel. Once more he tried his lighter. For a brief moment there was enough light for him to see a wall straight ahead of him with some writing on it. It looked like an exit. He couldn't make out the words as his light was now completely burned out. Reaching the wall, Kirkland gave a sigh of relief and rested his face against what felt like cold metal bars. He then could hear the rustling of another person.

"Mike!" called James from a distance.

"Over here!" shouted Kirkland as he anxiously waited to see his best friend and partner. A strong bright beam of light pierced the blackness of the attic. It crossed back and forth across the room like a prison searchlight.

"Here Tom, I'm here," he called as the light grew closer. "Mike just hang on!" said James. Kirkland turned to the sound of James's voice when suddenly the bright beam of light then reached his face startling him. "Oh thank God Tom, I thought I was never going to get out of here," he exclaimed.

James slowly moved closer, keeping his light on Kirkland. He looked so pale and ghost-like in the beam of the light. "It's okay now buddy," said James as his light illuminated Kirkland's euphoric expression. "Thanks a million Tom, I'm happy as hell to see you, but could you point that thing somewhere other than my eyes, I think I'm blind enough as it is," laughed Kirkland.  James shared in his laugh for a moment and then aimed the flashlight directly at Kirkland's chest.

"Ready to get the hell out of here?" said Kirkland as he then saw James's expression change.

"What is it, Tom?"

James aimed the light at the wall behind him. "Step away from the wall, Mike," said James in a cautioned voice. Kirkland did as ordered and quickly moved to James's side, where he now could see what had changed the expression on his partners face so quickly. It was a tall black wrought iron gate with the words twisted into it. "Arbeit Macht Frei"




Chapter Twelve

Arbeit Mach Frei


Kirkland turned and looked at the gate, which was now illuminated by the flashlight James was holding. Chills ran down his body.

"There's someone else in here with us, Tom," whispered Kirkland as he pulled his gun. James quietly passed the flashlight to Kirkland as he removed his own gun from its holster.

"Yeah, and the scary thing is Mike, they want us to know they're here," said James in a hushed tone.

The two men slowly looked around the room  for any sign of the dangerous intruder who seemed to be silently moving among them. Kirkland shined the light back to the wrought iron gate that was blocking what appeared to be a doorway.

"Our Nazi has been busy."

"No kidding. I think there's more Zyklon B here than in all of Auschwitz. He must have been planning this for years."

"There's so much of it. I mean there's enough of this stuff here to kill the entire city of San Francisco."

"A masterful plan. Kill an entire city. You're either trying to exact some twisted form of revenge or you're like Herod trying to eliminate Jesus," said Kirkland.

"You actually think old Hermann is hunting for someone? Because this goes way beyond killing Jews, Mike."

A slight whisper of laughter danced across the room. James and Kirkland both froze at the sound of it.

"Better get home kid before the Zodiac gets you," snickered the voice.  Kirkland looked at James who was frozen with fear.

"WHO'S THERE?" demanded Kirkland, aiming his gun towards the source of the voice.

Only this time the laughter was more pronounced and deep.

"You loved her didn't you Thomas James? You loved her with all your heart and she abandoned you. So much for Julie's claim of eternal love."

The disembodied voice and laughter echoed across the cavernous room. Kirkland raised the flashlight only to find it was dead. He tried to see in the darkness and pinpoint the source of the sound.

"But that's the trouble with women, isn't it? They seduce you, pull you in, make you want them. Make you their slaves. Then without any thought or warning their love turns to ice. But don't worry Tom, I showed her."

"Don't listen Tom, it's a trap," said Kirkland as he continued attempting to locate the intruder in the blackness of the room.

"Think so Michael? How many lovers did your mother have? Leaving you alone locked inside a closet while she plied her womanly trade. Did you listen, Michael, to her cries of paid pleasure?" snickered the voice.

"You shut the hell up!" screamed Kirkland as he blindly fired a shot into the darkness. The voice only mocked him in the style of a bratty child. "You shut the hell up!"

The room suddenly became cold. James and Kirkland began to shiver when their attention was turned to the strike of a match being lit. The figure on the other side of the room raised it and brought it up to his face to light a cigarette. In the brief moment of illumination, James recognized the face.

"Did you two really think I was going to let you come into my hotel and walk away with all of my dirty secrets?" said Grantham as he stepped forward slowly taking a drag from his cigarette.

James and Kirkland both now had their guns aimed directly on him. "Richard, don't take another step, I'm warning you," said Kirkland.

"Or what? You're going to kill me? I'm already dead!" he said as he dropped the cigarette to the floor. A flash of light suddenly began moving from the opposite side of the room. The light blazed across the floor of the hotel's attic with a twin flash. The two flashes were now keeping pace with one another as they raced across the room burning a pattern into the floor while they made their way around the mountain of crates of Zyklon B.

"What the hell is that?" whispered Kirkland. The strong odor of gunpowder filled the room. When it became clear to him it was the pattern burning into the floor was that of two lightning bolts. It was the very same pattern that adorned every Gestapo officer's uniform. And they were both burning their way directly at James and Kirkland.

Nervously Kirkland watched the fire line make its way directly at them. James started to back up pulling Kirkland with him. When the fire lines blazed past them and struck the wall behind them. There was a brilliant flash and the wall came to life as the fire began to blaze around the frame of the gate giving it a life of it's own. The words "Arbeit Mach Frei" stared them both in the face as it blocked their only way out.

"We're trapped, Mike," whispered James as they turned to face Grantham who now had a Luger aimed at the two of them.

"You know I told that old fucking Nazi to stop bringing girls here. But they were all so beautiful. How could I stop myself? We both had so many of them over the years. He didn't just want to fuck them though. He kept trying to get them pregnant. And every time I turned around one would show up on my doorstep, and well, you saw the photo album, didn't you Tom? I was always able to solve the problem on my own. I suppose that makes me an accomplice, doesn't it?"

Kirkland and James watched the fire began to rise higher behind Grantham. Their backs were now nearly pressed against the iron-gate. One step further back and both men would be burned. With nowhere to go, James felt the only thing to do was talk.

"Accomplice? Then it was you who took the photo of Hermann next to the furnace," said James confidently.

"So you did look at the album! You've got a great analytical mind Thomas James I'll give you that. But you miss out on all the little details. How many times have you driven past the Aleris at night and not noticed the smoke coming from our incinerators?"

James felt sick at the thought of Grantham and Kritzler disposing of so many young girls in the hotel's furnace. "So if you had the incinerator why all of the Zyklon B?"

"You got me there, Tom. Even I didn't know about that one. I guess you'd have to ask the little bitch you let leave here with Jessalee."

James and Kirkland shared a look of confusion with one another. Then Kirkland asked a question. "So why did you run away when you saw Valerie?

"I was surprised at what old Hermann did to her. Those Nazis sure do have a passion for cruelty. And I guess the lesbian thing must have really pissed him off, especially when they wouldn't let him join in. So he went all Fatty Arbuckle on her," said Grantham giggling.

"They? There was more than one girl?" asked Kirkland.

"Oh yeah, there was more than just Valerie," snickered Grantham in a taunting way. "Ever fucked a couple of sisters at the same time, there Mikey?"

Kirkland's anger began to rise, as he was certain the taunts were referring to Jessalee and Valerie. "Jessalee told me you didn't know Valerie."

"Oh I knew her alright. I knew her better than any man. Take it from me baby, that girl wasn't all lesbian. Maybe that's why Hermann did what he did to her. Since he wasn't able to make her scream like I did," Grantham laughed deep and long. Then suddenly, he hesitated.

"The fire, it's getting bigger isn't it?" he said without looking. "Sure wish I had another cigarette. Oh well it won't be long now."

"Won't be long until what, Richard?" asked James.

Grantham looked down at the floor deep in thought, and then took in a long deep breath. "Until I drag Kirkland into the fire behind me."

The words hit James like a brick to the face. Before he could totally comprehend what had just been said, Grantham was on Kirkland grabbing him and quickly throwing him to the wooden attic floor. Kirkland began to thrash as James reached for his best friend.

Grantham swung a backhand across James's mouth, busting his lower lip, causing James to fall to the floor as well. Looking up as Grantham leered down at him, he then raised a finger and waved it back and forth. "It's not your turn yet, Tom."

*   *   *


The rush of wind came from directly behind James, as a passage door flew open behind the gate. James turned in the direction of the blast of cold air. It was Steve and Jake.

"TOM! Come on get out of there!" shouted Steve. James's attention went back to Kirkland who was kicking and screaming as Grantham walked slowly towards the fire in the center of the attic, pulling Kirkland by his leg behind him.

"I can't leave, Mike! Get this gate open!" screamed James as he went after his best friend.

"Tom that Zyklon B is going to explode any second come on!" shouted Steve as he and Jake kicked and pushed at the old gate.

"NO!!! Tom, HELP ME!" screamed Kirkland.

James ran and dove across the floor grabbing Kirkland's flailing hands. The two men gripped their hands tightly together as Grantham continued tugging on Kirkland's leg. The roar of the fire became louder as the heat began to become unbearable. The wooden floor only served to make the surface like that of an oven. Grantham looked back over his shoulder at James's attempt to save his best friend.

Steve and Jake shoved and pushed at the gate. Slowly the old rotted wooden walls which had been weakened by the fire began to give up their hold on the gate that was keeping James and Kirkland prisoner.

"Tom, don't let go!"

"Would you guys fucking hurry!" screamed James.

With another push the two men forced one side of the gate free from the wall. Moving as quickly as possible, Steve and Jake grabbed James by the ankles and began to pull.

James held on to Kirkland for all he was worth as Steve and Jake pulled them away from the blazing inferno and back to the broken gate.

"GO! GO!" screamed James as he and Kirkland were pulled to the opening behind the gate. James looked back and saw Grantham standing in the fire. His clothes were now starting to catch and burn. James cringed as he watched the flames consume Grantham. Then slowly Grantham raised Kritzler's Luger aiming it at James. Before he could react there was a quick pop then there was a sudden blast of fire going in every direction. It knocked the four men down the stairs. Tumbling over one another they all crashed at the bottom of the landing.

Outside on the street the crowd turned and gasped as the mountain of Zyklon B exploded, blasting glass, wood and concrete everywhere.

"Get out of here!" commanded the fire chief as a shower of debris came crashing to the street.

In the basement, Bobby and the Hazmat backup team felt the floor of the building shake. "What the hell was that? Are we having an earthquake?"

"That felt like an explosion not an earthquake," responded Donny, one of the Hazmat men.

"What the hell is going on?" demanded Steve as he tried to regain his wits.

"That was Grantham," said James as he rolled over Kirkland's unconscious body. Jake quickly applied an oxygen mask to him. The fire had left his trouser legs burnt completely off and the back of Kirkland's legs were blood red.

"It's okay, it's only slight first degree burns Tom," said Jake.

"KIRKLAND!" screamed Grantham from the top of the stairs. The three men looked up to see Grantham engulfed in flames, his hulking figure filling the doorway. His hair had been burnt away and his eyes were red, his suit was smoking and melted to his body. Steve and Jake shook their heads in disbelief.

"Impossible," whispered Steve.

Grantham began descending the stairs. The flesh dripped from his hands as he stretched them forth to reclaim his prize that was Michael Kirkland. Jake grabbed Kirkland up and hoisted him over his shoulder and began to make his way down the stairs as James and Steve attempted to block Grantham.

"Go Jake! Go!" shouted Steve as he smashed out the glass to retrieve the fire axe that was stationed on the wall behind them.

"Go Tom, help Jake get Mike out of here!" Reluctantly James began to follow Jake down the narrow flight of stairs. Looking back James watched Steve take hold of the axe like a professional baseball player. "Come on asshole! Bring it!" said Steve through gritted determined teeth, as he swung the axe directly into Grantham's shoulder.

The crack echoed like a busted walnut splitting the bone in half. Grantham's red, burning eyes narrowed into thin slits as he pulled the axe from his mangled smoldering arm.

"My turn!"

With a quick swing the axe, Grantham slammed it through Steve's left forearm lobbing it off and catching it in mid-air. Then he shook it in Steve's shocked face.

"Left arm gone clean up to the elbow! Ha ha haaaa!" sang Grantham, sounding like an evil Jerry Reed.

Steve fought going into shock as he watched blood spurt from the gash where his arm had once been. With other hand he tried to retrieve his pocketknife and keep distance between himself and Grantham. Slowly backing down the stairs, Steve fumbled with the knife until he finally got it open, slicing his thumb at the same time. He held the knife up pointing it at Grantham.

"You go to hell!"

"You first," smirked Grantham as he swung the axe in a flash and ejected Steve's head from his body. For several seconds, his body thrashed and reached for the space where his head had been only moments ago.

James and Jake continued moving down the staircase. Winded, Jake set Kirkland down a moment. What had happened? Both men wondered where Steve was. James grabbed Jake's radio.

"Bobby! Where the hell are you?"

"Tom we're making our way to the lobby. What happened?"

"It's Zyklon B exploding in the attic. Listen we need help and fast. Kirkland is seriously hurt and we are trying to get back to the twelfth floor. Please send someone up as fast as you can," said James when his attention was turned to the thumping of footsteps descending rapidly.

"Bring guns, Bobby!"

"I hope to God that's Steve and not Grantham!" said Jake.

Looking up toward the sound of the footsteps, Jake and James saw it wasn't footsteps at all. It was Steve's head bouncing down the stairs like a deformed basketball. It went from side to side along the stairs and walls of the narrow passageway. The floor and walls shook, as another explosion of Zyklon B blew in the attic.

"Jake, we gotta get out of here, this whole place is going to burn."

The two men picked up Kirkland and made their way down another landing, which ended in a doorway.

"Keep going Tom, that's the doorway to the twelfth floor."

*   *   *


Stillwell stood in horror as he looked into the radio and then at the Hazmat backup team. "Bring guns?"

"I don't know about you man, but I'm getting the fuck out of here!" yelled Donny as he bolted for the lobby leaving Stillwell and the other guy behind.

"You coward Donny!"

"Screw you Randy!" shouted Donny as he disappeared up the stairs.

"Never mind him, I'm with you Bobby, Steve and Jake are my friends, they wouldn't leave me behind. Let's go."

"Thanks Randy," said Stillwell as they began making their way to the stairs.

"Bobby forget the stairs, we'll never get to them in time. We gotta take the elevator."

"It's filled with dead bodies."

"At this point who gives a shit? Come on let's go."

Stillwell nodded and quickly spoke into his radio. "Requesting back up, twelfth floor, Aleris Hotel, send SWAT!" he commanded as they stepped inside the elevator.




Once James, Jake and Kirkland reached the landing of the twelfth floor, James looked for something to bolt the door with. "There, Tom, grab that chair and hook it under the door handle." Rushing to the chair laying flat on its side James picked it up and locked it into place. Jake laid Kirkland down on the floor so he could catch his breath.




Pressing the elevator call button there was a click and hum as the car doors opened revealing a pile of dead bodies. Grimacing with disgust Stillwell stepped inside the car followed by Randy. Pressing the button for the twelfth floor the two men watched the doors slowly close cutting them off from the rest of the living world.

James and Jake turned their attention to the sounds of the elevator on their floor. "Oh Jesus, I hope Grantham didn't find a way into the elevator," said Jake. But their question was quickly answered, as a soft knocking started to come from behind the blocked door. Turning to it, James could smell Grantham's burnt skin. Smoke was pouring through the cracks around the door. The sounds of flames crackling only made the moment more frightening. Grantham knocked again and tried twisting of the doorknob as he whispered. "Please let me in, I only want to drag you to hell with me."

Jake and James picked up Kirkland and looked to the stairs, when the ding of the elevator announced its arrival. They slowly backed away as Grantham's knocking became louder and more belligerent.

Stepping from the elevator car Stillwell and Randy looked around with guns drawn.

"Bobby! You gotta get us out of here and now," shouted James as he and Jake carried Kirkland as quickly as they could towards the elevator car.

"Jake, where's Steve?" asked Randy.

"He's dead, that thing behind the door killed him."

Randy gave Jake a puzzled look. "What are you talking about?" he said as suddenly there was a splintering of wood exploding throughout the hallway as Grantham stepped out. His suit was blackened like charcoal. Smoke poured from him as he walked towards the five men.

"What the hell are you?" shouted Stillwell.

"I'm the devil and I'm here to do the devil's business!"

"This ain't happening!" screamed Randy as he and Stillwell began to unload their guns into Grantham. Jake and James covered Kirkland.

Slowly and clumsily Grantham closed the gap from the other direction. The bullets struck him over and over, snapping bones, cutting through vital organs. Grantham began to falter as he walked. He stopped and started to shake violently. What remained of his fire-scarred face started to twist and contort until the ear splitting shriek spewed forth a name from his mouth.

"I AM LEGION!"




Chapter Thirteen

Legion


The shockwave from Grantham's scream sent chairs crashing into walls. Doors unhinged and ripped themselves free of their frames. Windows exploded and showered glass across the floor. The intensity of Grantham's violent reaction had knocked James and the others to the floor. Grantham staggered and collapsed on the floor. Kirkland had come to and crawled over to Grantham and whispered to him.

"You lie. You are not Legion! Christ cast him into the swine." said Kirkland.

Lying on his back and rasping for air Grantham looked at Kirkland and spoke gently. "You know nothing of us. Long before he who is the most high spit you into the dirt, have I existed! I, who seduced Samson and took away his gift. I, who tormented Job and I who danced before Herod!"

Kirkland now knew the hotel manager was demon possessed, he was no longer speaking to Richard Grantham. Kirkland spoke firmly.

"And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues! Book of Mark Chapter sixteen, verse seventeen!" spoke Kirkland confidently.

The demon inside Grantham laughed, "You think speaking the words from the book will send us away? You cannot command me."

Kirkland remained unshaken. "It isn't I who commands you. It is Christ who commands you and it is his name that causes you to tremble."

The demon gave Kirkland a sinister smile.

"Never Fink Mia."

Kirkland suddenly looked confused as he remembered those were the same words tattooed on Valerie Rivera. "What?"

"What?" the demon mocked him and then spoke with a deliberate calm tone. "The problem is Michael, not all of you believe," it said as it grabbed Kirkland by the throat and began to strangle him. "Come join me in hell!" the demon laughed.

James leapt up and dove on Grantham in an attempt to protect his friend. Kirkland screamed, "Tom, don't touch him!"

James's head shook violently as the smell of sulfur filled his nostrils. A blinding flash came and in an instant as he fell to his knees at the sound of pounding hammers.

His ears ached from the piercing sound and his body began to pour sweat from the heat that seemed to suddenly be filling the hallway. As he tried to get his wits about him, James could see all the doors to all of the rooms were open. The pounding noise was relentless. It was the sound of a hammer against metal, intertwined with the staccato trills of a piano and mixed with long sliding notes on a violin. It was if the sounds themselves were the very definition of musical sex. They grew louder as he felt himself moving closer to the doorways. The chandeliers in the hallway flickered and swayed. A rattling sound echoed and traveled through the floor like the sound of air trapped inside a water pipe.

As James tried to comprehend what was happening to himself it was then he realized he was being dragged from the elevator and down the hallway. Looking up his heart stopped as he saw Grantham looking down on him. More sliding violins and piano trills filled his ears.

Grantham pulled James down the hallway. The flames crept along the walls following them.  As James was pulled past each open door a new horror was revealed. He saw an obese figure with no face holding the very same hammer that was in the photograph in Kritzler's trunk. The faceless man was source of the pounding noise. He hammered and hammered at molten metal causing a spark to flash with each hit. The olive skinned man in the white suite from room 1219 sat watching the shirtless, sweat-soaked obese man form the molten metal into large oversized nails. Then James saw the small girl, Jordan. She was barefoot and dressed in a white nightgown. She walked over and stood next to the olive skinned man. She then raised a hand to her mouth and whispered into his ear. They both looked up at James. The man nodded to her and she held her hands to her mouth in an attempt to cover a snickering laugh.

James tried to wrench himself loose of Grantham's grip. However Grantham ignored his attempts to escape as he dragged James past the next room, where James saw a group of men dressed in doctor's coats standing around a young girl with a butcher knife in her hand. The girl was pregnant. The word "ABORT!" crackled over a loudspeaker inside the room. With each chime of the word "ABORT!" the girl jammed the butcher knife into her swollen stomach. Her screams filled the room as the doctors wandered around the room rubbing their chins, musing the actions of the girl. As Grantham dragged James away from the room, he saw something scratched into the wall. The writing was same as the note signed by Edmund Frayker.

"Murder is a sin!"

In a panic James looked back at the elevator where Grantham had just pulled him. There, just above the top of the elevator doors was the floor indicator, reading the words James had feared all along.

"Eternal Damnation"

"Oh my God, I'm in hell!" cried James as Grantham dragged him further down the hall. This time he passed an open door where a black winged angel presented a large muscled Roman soldier with a long spear that had a double-sided razor edge. Seated in a half circle there were several Nazi SS witnessing the act. The Roman bowed and knelt before the angel as he took the spear into his hard-callused hands. The SS stood to attention and gave the Nazi salute.

Grantham tightened his grip on James's collar and pulled him past the last room in the hallway where the words scrawled into the door read, "13 Millers Court." Inside the room James saw five women. Each one was savagely mutilated. Their bodies lay flat on their backs. Their throats slashed and abdomens ripped open. A pentagram the size of the room was drawn on the floor. Each victim was placed at one of the corresponding points of the demonic symbol.  In the center was a tall man dressed in a long black coat. His face was white as chalk and his eyes blindfolded as he held up a surgeon's knife in one hand and scales in the other. Three men stood surrounding him with their backs to him, forming a human triangle. They were dressed in formal clothing and wore Masonic Aprons. In each of their left hands was a walking stick that concealed a long sharp blade within it. As they pointed the blade at each point the man in the center called out a name.

"Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows, Mary Kelly."

 The Masons then spoke in unison.

"Let our brother Edmund Frayker, receive the light." The Masons then turned and removed the blindfold and spoke. "Your justice is good and well served brother.

 Edmund Frayker raised his justice scales and knife up high and called out,  "The Juwes are the men who will not be blamed for nothing."

The Masons responded, "So mote it be!"

Grantham turned away and now dragged James toward the end of the hallway. The pounding music continued to fill the air. It was inescapable. The piano now became more of a lullaby as the violins danced into the crossing of piano keys. Together they began to reach a crescendo that pulled James deeply into another world.

James looked and saw there where stairs that descended to another floor and a set of large double doors that were closed. The heat was unbearable. Grantham did not speak he only pointed at the doors. As he did this, they slowly began to part. Once opened, they revealed an oversized furnace. There, James saw Kritzler naked on a broken down bed and wearing a goat's head mask. He was old and lying under him was a young girl with a yellow Star of David on her sackcloth dress, which was pushed up and exposing her hips. Kritzler shamelessly raped the girl. As James looked to where Grantham was now pointing, he saw an endless line of young girls waiting for their turn with Kritzler. As Kritzler finished with her, she rose from the bed, tore her dress and climbed inside the furnace.

James sobbed bitterly at the horrific sight. Grantham then released James and began to disrobe from his burnt clothing. His black charred flesh was cracked and smelt of brimstone. James watched him walk to where two girls stood clad in SS uniforms. They stood guard over the endless line of Jewish girls. With excitement in their eyes they watched Kritzler as he committed eternal rape. Grantham climbed up a short flight of steps that led to an oversized chair on a pedestal.  The pedestal read in bold letters the word, "Heathen." He turned and sat there, taking his place as master of the domain. Grantham called out in a language that James did not understand. This caused the two female SS guards to turn and face James. They then began to seductively unbutton their jackets and remove their clothing. Their dark hair fell down their backs as they removed their Gestapo uniforms. They spoke to each other, but it wasn't in German, it was in the same language spoken by Grantham.

James began to back away, but the two girls grabbed his wrists and began to pull him towards them. He tried to pull away, but the SS girls tore at his clothing with lustful fury in their eyes.

"Come let us drink wine and you may lie with us so that we may preserve the seed of our father."

"If you deny us, then we will lay with Kirkland."

Forcing James down to the floor the two girls overpowered him. As one girl held James in place the other girl forced James inside her.

"Take us!" demanded the girls. "Give us your seed!" cried the girl in orgasmic ecstasy. James looked up and could see a host of black winged angels standing over him as they encouraged the sisters to take him.

The girl closed her eyes and screamed to the top of her lungs as she rode him. James felt the fire consuming him as he was forced into the savage act. The piano pounded away as the sisters had their way with him. The violins mimicked the movement of the girl's legs. He had no more will power to fight. Looking up at the evil that surrounded him a blinding flash burnt across his face causing James shut his eyes tight. The flash came with the image of the number 23 branded into the left breast of the sister who held him down. James screamed aloud as he tried to push away the sister who drove her hips into him. Wildly she thrust away making James wish it was all just a nightmare, but in his heart he knew he had gone to hell and all he could think of was Kirkland.

Again a flashing image came. This time he saw Kirkland standing over him. He was holding hands with the girl Jordan.

"Mike, you've got to get out of here!" begged James. "Jordan, take him away. Hurry before the pig man comes back!" he said in a panicked voice.

The girl tugged on Kirkland's hand. Kirkland looked down at James with an apologetic and helpless expression. He then looked back at Jordan who motioned for him to come with her. Kirkland looked back to James once more and said, "God has not forgotten you, Tom," he said as he let Jordan pull him away, leaving James to the sea of despicable creatures. As James looked up at the sister who was violating him with passionate lust he could see an air vent above her. There, looking down on them was The Pig Man.




 James screamed to the top of his lungs. He screamed over and over hoping it would all go away. The only thought that filled his mind was Kirkland's final words to him that "God had not forgotten him." James then opened his eyes. There was no sound. Only the smell of smoke filled his senses. As his hearing slowly returned he began to hear the roar of fire as it consumed the walls of the twelfth floor.

James sat up and saw the fire was closing in on him. He forced his body to stand and clutch the wall for support. He could feel the heat from the fire. Disoriented he tried to find the stairs. James looked behind him and saw smoke was billowing down the hallway towards him. It seemed to have a life of it's own. He tried to run from it but tripped and fell at the landing tumbling down the short flight of stairs. James looked up and saw the bodies of Jake, Bobby and Randy crucified into the landing wall upside down forming an unholy trinity. Their faces contorted into expressions of shock, agony and fear in their eyes wide open. Their shirts were ripped open exposing their stomachs. Carved into each man's body was a single letter. Together side-by-side the letters spelled: O T O.

As James took in the image he began to walk backwards down the stairs, never taking his eyes off the three crucified men. Backing down, James realized Kirkland was not among them. It was then he felt the stabbing pain in the palm of his hand. James descended the stairs into the main lobby of The Aleris Hotel. He walked zombie like, his face and suit was spattered with blood and a mixture of black ashes. Laser sightings began to appear on him as somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he heard words like, "Stop! On your face now!"

Running in slow motion in his direction and screaming his name was Jessalee. Knocking over swat members and blocking their laser sights, she ran across the lobby to James's side. Her face showed her fear as she saw the blood that covered him. Looking into her eyes he saw her speak but he did not hear her say the name Kirkland with a question. James slowly raised his blood-soaked hand answering her with Kirkland's badge. Her face shifted into emotional agony as she threw her arms around James and cried. As she pulled away, she kissed his cheek in grateful desperation that he was still alive. She turned and wrapped her arm around him as they made their way from the hotel and down to the street.

"He saved me," spoke James numbly clutching Kirkland's badge to his chest. Then he looked up into the darkened night sky as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

"He saved me."




Chapter Fourteen

Ashton


Special Agent Ashton Summers of the FBI sighed deeply as she dropped six quarters into the coffee machine that stood outside the closed hospital café. The bangs of her honey blonde hair dangled loosely across her ocean blue eyes. As she ran her fingers through her hair, which was parted to one side and touched just past the shoulders of her slim but firm five foot six inch frame, it wasn't hard to tell that she was exhausted after driving straight from Los Angeles to San Francisco without making one stop.  She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 1:13 a.m. Yawning, she removed her wire-framed glasses and leaned her head against the side of the machine as it started making spitting noises and it wasn't long before the stream of golden liquid had quickly filled the styrene cup. Stepping back, Summers put her glasses back on so she could watch this marvel of automation do its job. Although somewhat in awe, she couldn't help but feel like she was purchasing a cup of electric piss.

"Thank God I didn't press the button for hot chocolate," she mumbled to herself.

"You're not really going to drink that crap are you?" asked a voice behind her. Summers jumped with a start, as she believed she was alone. Turning around she saw the face that belonged to the voice.  Jessalee smiled and pointed off to a door that was in the direction she was walking.

"If you want some real coffee, and not those watered down cremated turd flakes, then follow me." Summers looked back at the coffee machine and saw her recently purchased drink had leaked all over the side of the unit that housed the cup storage.

"Don't mind if I do," said Summers, quickly following Jessalee behind a door clearly meant for staff or officials of law enforcement only.

The room was an inviting lounge. A sea of blue carpet ran from wall to wall and two darkened rooms with beds were off to the left side for doctors who couldn't make it home after their shift. There were a dozen oversized armchairs placed sporadically throughout the space and a 60-inch plasma television was affixed to the main wall. The sound was low and the channel was set to one of the major cable news networks. Ashton was relieved it wasn't on ESPN.

"No donuts, hope you don't mind roughing it," stated Jessalee.

"No just the coffee please," pleaded Summers.

Jessalee reached over and picked up a large ceramic cup and filled it with the steaming aroma of cinnamon and hazelnut. Gently handing the mug to Summers, Jessalee gestured to the table full of creamers, sugars and stick stirrers. Summers felt a brief moment of levity as she smirked at the cartoon drawing on the side of the cup—a patient was running madly away from a nurse with a boiling pot of water. Standing in the doorway looking shocked was the doctor who was shouting to the nurse, "No I told you to prick his boil!" 

Jessalee glanced over and saw which cup she had given Summers, "Oh yeah sorry, hospital humor," she remarked as she took her own mug and offered Summers a seat. Summers forced a tired smile.

"Thank you for the coffee."

"You're welcome. I'm Jessalee," she said as she took a seat opposite of Summers.

"Ashton Summers," she said taking a drink. The coffee was bold and yet had just the perfect amount of comfort in its taste. This was exactly what Summers needed in that moment. Jessalee watched Summers hold the cup as if her life depended on it.

"So what brings the F.B.I here tonight?" asked Jessalee. Summers looked at her with surprise.

"I saw your gun, and leather interview folder. It has the F.B.I. logo embossed into it."

"You're either a quick study or I'm really obvious," stated Summers.

"No you're new. When you have lived and worked in this city as long as I have, you get a memory for faces. Plus no one drinks coffee from the machine in the hall, unless they're strangers here. Those six quarters you dropped into it, are probably the only ones in that old thing."

"Think I could get a refund?" joked Summers.

"I doubt it, but if you want to break into it, I have no problem looking the other way," joked Jessalee in return. "Seriously though, what brings you here in the middle of the night? Is it the explosion and fire at The Aleris?"

"Is that what the bright light in the sky was? I saw that. I thought it was a firework at first. I saw it for miles before I got into the city. No actually I'm here to talk with Inspector Thomas James."

Jessalee shifted in her chair and wondered why the F.B.I. was here looking for Tom. Just thinking his name gave her shivers again. She still couldn't shake the image of him coming down the stairs into the lobby, covered in blood, looking like an axe murderer. The blank stare in his eyes and Kirkland's badge still clutched in his hand so tightly that it left a cut that required seven stitches. Raising her hand to her mouth she quickly caught herself, forcing the tears back as she tried to fight thoughts of Kirkland.

Summers could see Jessalee's emotional reaction to the subject of Thomas James. "Oh my God, I'm sorry, did I say something upsetting or offensive to you?"

"No, no it's just our department has had a really bad night, we lost some good people tonight in that fire," said Jessalee wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Inspector James wasn't one of them was he?"

"No, but he's being kept here overnight for observation."

"Observation?" quizzed Summers. "I thought he was here at the hospital working a 187. You mean he's a patient?"

"Yeah?" said Jessalee in a confused tone. "You thought he was here working a homicide?  Which one?"

Summers returned Jessalee's look of confusion. "I don't know. I phoned this evening around six to arrange to drive up and do an interview with him and was told he was working a homicide at the hotel. When I got into the city I called back and your dispatch said he was here, so I just assumed," she trailed off.

"Interview?" asked Jessalee.

"Yes, his name has come up in a case I'm working on in Hollywood," said Summers, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to ascertain the motivation behind Jessalee's insistence for information. Was there a private relationship she was trying to hide between the inspector and herself, Summers wondered? Or was she nosey?

"Forgive me for being so blunt, but why does this seem to be so personal with you?"

"The murder he was working on, was..." Jessalee hesitated. "The victim was my sister."

"What is your sisters name?"

"Valerie Rivera."

Summers suddenly felt cold. She stood and placed her coffee cup on the table when she began to feel that feeling that came from years of experience. That overwhelming sense you get when you realize you're in danger.

"The hotel Inspector James was at when I called earlier, was that The Aleris?" asked Summers in a hollow tone. Jessalee sensed the agent's change in body language. She turned and looked at Summers, who still was facing away from her.

"Yes."

"And your sister was the victim. Was your sister in room 1219?"

"Yes, who told you that?" asked Jessalee defensively. But Jessalee knew in her heart that no one had, suddenly she was overcome with the same feeling that had hit Summers only moments before.

"The case you're working on. The one in Hollywood, it's connected to my sister's murder somehow, isn't it?"

Summers placed both hands on the edge of the table and gripped it tightly. She hung her head down and swallowed hard. She then nodded yes.

"Your sister's murder, it's Virginia Rappe isn't it?"

"Yes," said Jessalee fearing the worst. "And the case you're working on, which murder is it?"

Summers slowly turned back to face Jessalee. Her body shivered involuntary as she spoke the two words that confirmed the fears of both women.

"Black Dahlia."




Chapter Fifteen

Black Dahlia


Thomas James slept soundly and for the first time since the Carlyle homicide, his mind found peace. Quietly the nurse stepped into his room and checked him. She tried to not disturb Summers and Jessalee who were also both asleep, propped up in chairs on opposite sides of his bed.

The early morning sounds of San Francisco had begun to creep through the partially open window. The nurse checked her watch. It was four a.m. As she stepped out of the room, Summers awoke with a start.  She quickly looked around trying to figure out where she was. Everything was blurry. She felt her face and realized her glasses were off. She saw them laying on the nightstand on top of her gun. As she reached for them she noticed there was a dark figure standing at edge of the bed. The figure was watching her. She quickly tried to get her wits about her and grabbed at her glasses, but when she put them on the figure was gone.

Slightly unnerved, Summers stretched and stood up. Then she walked to the open doorway. Jessalee and James were both still sleeping, so she quietly stepped into the hallway and looked around. It was dark and still and the two officers who had been assigned to watch James were still away on their four-hour break. Jessalee was too nice thought Summers. Looking to her left she noticed a lone lamp illuminating the nurse's station at the end of the hallway. Brushing her hair from her eyes, Summers proceeded to walk down to the station, but once she was there she noticed no one was around. Where was everyone? she wondered.

"Hello?" she called. There was no answer. "This is just damn odd," she said to herself. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Summers saw Inspector James's chart lying on the station desk. She started to lean over the desk to pick it up when a noise in the darkened hallway behind the station caught her attention.

"Hello?" she called again, starting to feel nervous. An involuntary shiver ran down her back. She looked right and left to see if there was any sign of another person around. Summers wanted to see James' chart, but didn't want to get caught looking at it. Then her inner voice reminded her she was a federal agent and she could do pretty much whatever she wanted. Giving in, Summers decided to throw caution to the wind and walked behind the desk to pick it up. As she rounded the corner, she saw an empty shoe on the floor. Her eyebrows knitted into instant look of puzzlement. Directly behind her she heard another noise coming from the darkened hallway. She turned and tried to see what was down there. Her chest rose and fell as she took in a deep yet frustrated breath. Looking to her right Summers could tell she was exactly four rooms away from where Inspector James and Jessalee were sleeping. Then the noise happened again. It seemed to be directly in front of her, and no more than 10 feet away.

"Hello," she said with more authority in her voice this time. Reaching in front of her to find a light switch she felt the plastic nub was already in the up position. She pushed it down and then up again. There was no change. She flicked it several times just to be certain.

"Crap," she hissed, pulling her hand away. She turned back to reach for the chart when she realized the inside of her palm was red. Quickly raising her hand to her eyes, Summers sucked in a breath. Her hand was red from blood. She spun back to face the hallway. Slowly reaching behind herself she found the desk lamp and picked it to illuminate the light switch. It was smeared with a blood that trailed away into the hallway's darkness. Quickly reaching for her gun, Summers suddenly felt the shock of her empty holster. Her fear mounting as she remembered her gun was on the nightstand. Moving the lamp into her other hand she pointed the light to the floor. There a deep, wet scarlet streak of blood which like the hand smear, continued into the darkness of the hallway. Boldly taking a step backwards Summers froze, convinced she had heard a low snicker of laughter.

She still had the lamp in her hand, but it began to shake from her nervousness. Summers looked back at the distance to where James and Jessalee were. She wondered how long it would take her to get there. Could she reach her gun? Would she have enough time? Quietly as she could Summers took another step backwards, the giggle changed into a growl. She was certain if she called out who ever it was would know that she was alone and vulnerable.

Summers wanted to carefully replace the lamp back on the desk and try to make her way back to the room. She knew in her gut that whatever was waiting in the back of the dark hallway knew she was aware of its presence. She also knew at this point she didn't dare turn her back to what ever it was. Frozen in place Summers wished someone would show up. Anyone. In her mind she was screaming for Jessalee to wake up and come look for her. She would just have to risk it and move as slowly as she could.

Jessalee's eyes popped open wide with shock. A hand covered her mouth tightly. Reaching up she tried to pry the hand from her mouth. Her eyes looked up to see the wild frightened stare of Ashton Summers holding her finger to her mouth, giving her the universal gesture for silence. Jessalee nodded in agreement. Summers released her grip and quickly dashed around the other side of the bed and grabbed her gun. She quickly attempted to place a round into the chamber.

"What's wrong with my gun?"

Jessalee sat up and started to speak. Summers shook her head violently in a no pattern. Just as quickly Summers returned to Jessalee's side and whispered as softly as she could.

"We have to get out of here now."

"What's going on?"

"There is something out there in the hallway. We have to get Inspector James out of here," she said as she popped the clip from her pistol to check it. "Oh Jesus, it's empty."

Confused, Jessalee wasn't sure what to think. She wasn't even awake yet.

"What do you mean there's something out there?"

"Keep your voice down or it will hear you," insisted Summers as she pushed a wheelchair next to the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Get Inspector James, I don't know how much time we have."

Jessalee was becoming frustrated. She knew something was seriously wrong for a federal agent to behave in such a manner. But she didn't understand what could be.

"Ashton wait. Let me call the nurses station they can help us."

"You can't, there's no one there. They're dead. We're all alone."

"No that's not possible someone has to be there. Tom isn't the only patient on this ward," said Jessalee as she reached for the call button. Summers jerked the call button from Jessalee's hand.

"The other rooms are empty. There is no one else up here."

Jessalee grabbed the call button back from Summers and pressed the white button hard with her thumb. The buzzer blared at the nurse's station. Both women looked at one another as they listened for any signs of anyone responding. The buzzer echoed again as suddenly a loud howling scream came from the station. The scream grew louder as they heard things being smashed and turned over along with running footsteps.

"Oh my God! What the fuck?" screamed Jessalee as she and Summers quickly shoved James's door closed. Both women leaned hard against it. The fast moving footsteps rushed toward them and a sudden burst of pounding fists began slamming on the window of the door. The howling screams raged as whatever it was desperately attempted to push the door open. The noises continued as if being issued from someone who could not speak. The door slammed inches into the backs of both women as they both put all the weight of their bodies against it.

"Um gunah git yew! Yew ucken oors!"

The guttural screams from the other side of the door sent a shockwave of fear into Ashton Summers she hadn't felt since she was a little girl. Jessalee reached into her pocket and tried to retrieve her cellular phone. She quickly flipped it open only to read the tiny bold letters, "NO SERVICE."

Summers looked around trying to find anything that could help them.  Down at the other end of the room she could see the fire alarm.

"The fire alarm!" she exclaimed as the door pushed and pounded into their backs.

"I've got to break the glass and pull it!"

"No, Ashton I can't hold the door!" said Jessalee as she looked up at James on the bed. His face was looking at her with confusion in his eyes.

"Tom! Tom can you hear me?" called Jessalee.  James nodded his head slowly but did not speak. The pushing on the door suddenly stopped. Summers and Jessalee looked at one another.

"We need to get Tom down here on the floor. He has to take my place against the door so I can pull the fire alarm," said Summers.

"He's too weak, we can't risk moving him."

Suddenly there was silence. No one was pounding on the door. There was no pushing. No screaming. Just silence.

"Something's wrong, Ashton."

"I know, but this might be our only chance," said Summers as she looked at the fire alarm and then back to James. "Inspector, can you crawl down here on the floor with us?"

James looked at Summers and then to Jessalee. His head was still in a deep fog. He nodded and started to move when both women saw his eyes change.

"What is it Tom? What's wrong?" asked Jessalee.

A smashing crash hit the glass of the window, causing both women to scream. Diamond shaped shards of glass sprayed everywhere. Summers looked up as saw the edge of an axe buried deep into the plate glass with cross sections of chicken wire framing broken free.

"Hurry Tom!" shouted Jessalee as she reached for him.

James tried to move but his legs were numb from the drugs that were still coursing through his system. Edging himself to the bed's end the floor seemed to be far away. The screaming began again as the axe smashed against the window a second time. James looked up into the face behind the glass. Their eyes made contact.

"Um gunna git yew!"

The face was contorted and twisted with a nose that was half missing. He began to fear he was having another nightmare. Was this all another bad dream? wondered James. The face on the other side of the glass pulled the axe out and then held up a straight razor. It then carved off the rest of its nose. Blood began spurting through the broken glass, dripping down onto both Agent Summers and Jessalee.

Nightmare or not James wasn't waiting to find out he rolled off the bed and landed hard onto the floor. Jessalee and Summers pulled him up against the door with them.

"Hurry, do it!" shouted Jessalee to Summers. Summers leapt up and ran to the fire alarm. Holding her breath she pulled the red handle down and broke the small glass cylinder. There was no sound. Summers looked back at James and Jessalee who were just as bewildered as she was.

"What happened? I don't hear anything!" said Jessalee. When a bright flashing light began to pulse in the room and hallway.

"Oh Jesus it's a silent alarm because we're in a hospital," said Summers.

"Nuhhhh! Nuhhhh!" screamed the thing in the hallway. Whatever it was it seemed to know the alarm had been activated.

"Uckin oors!" it screamed and howled as it began slamming the axe into the door and window again in a series of wild random blows. Summers ran back to the door and, for a moment, the face on the other side of the door looked at her and smiled. Rotted teeth and yellow eyes greeted her. It then slowly backed away from the door and tore open its shirt showing her its ripped and slashed chest. Dropping down to the floor next to James and Jessalee, Ashton Summers realized that for the first time in her career as a federal agent she was terrified. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late the image was already burned into her mind. Standing on the other side of the door was a man holding a blood soaked straight razor, fresh from having carved into his chest, HELTER SKELTER.




Chapter Sixteen

Helter Skelter


"Hey! What the hell is going on here!" shouted a strong male voice. Jessalee, James, and Summers looked to one another.

"Come back here!" the voice shouted.

Then they could hear the clicking of heels as their attacker ran from the thud of heavy boots in pursuit. A sound of keys jangling from a hip belt reverberated through the hall back to the three. Jessalee and James knew that noise well. It was the sound of an officer running.

"Put it down! Put it down now!" commanded the strong voice.

"DO IT!" shouted another male voice.

Jessalee instantly recognized the voices. It was the two officers she and Summers had relieved from standing watch over Inspector James.

"Get against the wall," one of them said forcefully.

"Nuuuu nuuuuuu," it cried as they twisted his arms behind him and hand cuffed him.

"Rivera, you here?"

Quickly Jessalee and Summers moved from the door and helped James stand to his feet.

"Yes, we're in here," Jessalee called to the officers. Looking over they could see them behind the axe torn door.

"Jesus, you guys okay?"

"Yes."

"Hold still!" said the officer as he jerked the man around and held him into place. The other officer came over to Inspector James's room.

"Is Tom okay?" he asked.

"Yeah I think so, but we need to get him out of here as soon as possible."

"I'm calling for backup right now, I think the safest place for him is back at the station," said the officer.

Summers helped James back to the bed. Then Jessalee got her first real look at the man who had been trying to kill them. His face was covered in blood and his nose was missing, as she looked down she now realized what the clicking noises were. He had on red high heeled pumps. He grinned at Jessalee and stared deeply at her as if he was taking a mental picture of her.

"Eeee's mine, hu uh uh uh," it laughed.

"Shut the fuck up!" growled the cop as he jerked the man's arm to hold him still. The other officer came over to the door of the room and started to push it open, but it appeared to be jammed. "We need some lights on in here," he stated when he clicked on his flashlight. As he did his face became pale. Written in blood on the door  were the words,

"Death To Pigs."




Chapter Seventeen

Death To Pigs


"So this is the guy who's put this city on its head for the last 24 hours?" asked Captain Debra Shelton as she stood between Inspector James and Agent Summers. The three of them looked through the two- way glass into Interrogation Room 1. Handcuffed to a steel chair was their attacker from the hospital. His face had been bandaged. It covered the space where his nose once was. A guard stood inside the stale colorless room watching him closely as the department's psych doctor tried to talk to him.

"I don't know Cap, doesn't feel right to me," said James.

"Me either," chimed in Summers.

"Well one thing is for sure. He killed that nurse. Did you see the word he carved into her stomach?" asked Captain Shelton. James and Summers shook their heads no in unison.

"There was so much blood. I thought he just cut her throat," responded James. Summers curiosity got the better of her as she couldn't help but pursue the answer. "What was the word?"

"He carved the word 'War' into her stomach," the captain sighed.

Upon hearing that, Summers shook all over and the hairs on her arms stood at attention.

"Jesus, just like Leno LaBianca," she whispered.

"And you saw the words written in blood on my hospital door, not to mention what this asshole cut into his own chest," said James shaking his head.

"Awful lot of references to Charlie and The Family isn't it," said the captain.

"You think this guy is one of The Family, Captain Shelton?" asked Summers.

"Sure would explain a lot. But what do I know? I'm just a crazy okie girl with shoes on," Shelton replied.

"Have they been able to get any kind of identification from him?" asked James.

  "Not so far, he used that straight razor on his fingers too, as if to spite us," said Shelton with a wearisome sigh. She then continued. "Tommy I know you're exhausted and got more on your plate than you can chew, but I'm thinking you and Miss Summers better get to talking to this guy fast before his public defender shows up and starts crying foul."

  "You got it, Cap," answered James.

"I want you two and Rivera in my office right after," she said as she calmly headed up the stairs. She didn't wait for an answer and James didn't really need to give her one. They had a good, long-standing working relationship. James had always admired Captain Shelton. She was a large woman and every pound of her was compassionate and understanding. But she was not someone you questioned when things got serious. He knew she had a hard life growing up in Stockton, California. Or as she commonly liked to refer to it as "Hell's Half Acre." But you would never know it from talking with her. She never grumbled or complained about anything. She took each day as it came whether it was good or bad.

"She has a lot of respect for you, Inspector," commented Summers.

"Yeah, she's a good woman. She's someone I would take a bullet for any day," he replied.

"Wow, that's saying quite a lot about someone. I can't think of anyone I would do that for back at the bureau."

"Anyone who puts their life before kids is tops in my book," said James.

"Captain Shelton? What happened?"

*   *   *


James quietly started to tell Summers the Captain's story, "She would kick my ass for telling you this. But I tell it to anyone who ever doubts why we do what we do. Captain Shelton—or Deb as she was known back in 1988—was working for San Joaquin County Sheriff's Department. Like all the rest of us who choose law enforcement as a living, she was working her way up from the streets into the detective division. Well in October of that same year, a former security guard and drug addict who worked as a part-time janitor at a local school decided to just start shooting children."

Summers gave James a look of shock followed by a look of recognition. "Wait wasn't that the Cleveland School shooting, Stockton, California?"

James nodded yes. Summers remembered the story.

"Yeah we studied that case at Quantico. It made national headlines."

"Exactly, and Captain Shelton was first officer on the scene. When she arrived it was like a war zone. He had already killed several children and teachers and had gone back to his station wagon to reload. He had brought two machine guns, several handguns and grenades. Captain Shelton saw him reloading in his car and two wounded little girls lying in the center of the playground. She knew he was coming back for them. She had called for backup, but in that moment she was on her own. She had a lot of ground to cover between the girls and the shooter. Halfway there she saw he was coming back from the car, locked and loaded. She knew even if she ran as fast as she could, he would still get to the little girls before she could. As soon as he saw Captain Shelton he drew on her. She called to him and told him to let the two girls go. If he wanted a hostage he could take her. She would drop her gun. The gunman told her, he wasn't taking any prisoners and shot Captain Shelton twice in the chest. While she was lying on the ground he came up to her and put his gun into her face and asked her if she had any last words. You know what she said?"

Summers was now on the edge of her seat captivated by the way James was telling Shelton's story. "No what did she say to him?"

"She said to him, 'Son, don't shame your mama like this.' He looked at her and his expression changed. He turned and walked back to the car, put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger."

"Oh my god. He stopped, just like that."

"In a million years I would have never thought to say something like that to a guy with a gun. You know most cops are good at a basic level, but because of the nature of what we do it makes some of them real jerks a lot of the time. But it's an officer like Captain Shelton that makes me try harder every day. Try harder to be more like her. That's why whenever that woman asks anything of me I never hesitate to say yes, " said James proudly.

"Thank god she was wearing her Kevlar that day," said Summers. James smiled back at her and shook his head no. "It was the one day she didn't wear it. Both those bullets are still in her chest. They are lodged in such a way that her life depends on them. The doctor told her if they ever try to take them out she'd go into shock and be gone within seconds. She calls them her little hearts. Because of Cap, those two little girls got to grow up and become moms. "

Summers sat motionless and amazed by the story. She now understood why James had such a deep respect and admiration for his captain.

James smiled and reached out his hand to Summers. "By the way we haven't really been properly introduced, I'm Thomas James." Summers returned his smile and took his hand into hers.

"Ashton Summers."

"From what I understand I owe a debt of thanks to you for what happened at the hospital last night," he said returning her grip.

"I can't take all the credit. Your friend Miss Rivera, she was right by your side the entire time," responded Summers as she slowly released his hand. The two of them looked back at the suspect behind the glass and then at each other. James leaned his head in a motion towards the interrogation room. "Ready to go and deal with our monster?" asked James. Summers nodded, "He who fights monsters must be careful that he himself does not become one."

 James quickly finished her quote.

"For if you gaze into the abyss long enough the abyss will gaze back into you."

"Very good, you know your Nietzche," said Summers confidently.

"Maybe it's because I already know the abyss all too well."

 She then paused as she looked deep into his hazel eyes and remembered the reason why she was here in the first place was because of him. Once again Summers shivered and felt the chill of fear on her body as she questioned in her mind. Just how well does he know The Abyss?




Chapter Eighteen

The Abyss


  James and Summers were met at the door of the interrogation room by the department's psychiatrist, Dr. Scott Cherney.

"So what's the story doc? Can we interview him?" asked James. Cherney put the thick manila file folder under his arm and patted James on the shoulder and ushered him and Summers over to the department's break room.

"I need a cup of coffee, I think you guys are gonna need one too," he said, walking past them to enter the break room. James and Summers exchanged a look and then obediently followed Cherney.

You could always tell where Doc Cherney was in the building because of the perpetual smell of cigarettes, black coffee and the occasional trailing scent of Aqua Velva. There were times James wondered if Cherney ever ate. Could a man survive on only coffee and cigarettes? If it were possible then Doc Cherney would be that man. His salt and pepper hair gave a small indication to his years. But what really gave his age away was his profound knowledge of movies. Not just the recent ones either. His mind was a  boundless library that went all the way back to the silent era. To hear him talk, you would think the man was a film critic not a psychiatrist, James thought,  you have to love something other than your job. Doc Cherney's first love was obviously cinema. In fact when he wasn't trying to get inside the head of every asshole who felt the world owed them a favor, you could find him at his favorite coffee house working on his latest novel. Oddly enough James found the doctor to actually be a damn good writer. James's favorite was Red Asphalt, he had read it at least five times and still had never worked up the courage to ask the doc to autograph it for him.

"Sit down Tom and, I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

"Ashton Summers, we haven't actually met," she said. This caused Cherney to respond with a confused look that he turned towards James as if to say, "Then why is she here?" James immediately picked up on his expression.

"Miss Summers is here on behalf of the F.B.I."

Cherney nervously nodded and poured himself a large cup of black coffee. He then sat opposite of James and Summers and reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of Camel no filters. In a matter of three moves he had a single cigarette from the pack to his lips and lit. James noticed Summers was about to protest due to California's law on virtually no smoking anywhere, when James nudged her that law didn't apply when it came to working with Dr. Cherney. She quickly caught on and relaxed back into her chair.

Now that Cherney was in his element, he could proceed with an air of comfort. He flipped open the folder and took a long drag from his cigarette. "You're gonna want to take notes, because even I don't know if I believe the shit I'm gonna tell you," he said as blew the smoke out through his nose. Summers quickly pulled a yellow legal pad from her folder.

Cherney continued, "Billy-Bob-No-Nose in there isn't your typical Ned Beatty raping hillbilly." Summers gave Cherney an incredulous look that was not only chastising, but it bordered between shock and amusement. Cherney relished in her reaction for a moment, then moved on. "I know, I amaze myself sometimes. Anyway I know it's clichéd to say, but your axe wielding killer in there is the real McCoy," said Cherney. He caught Summers glancing over her glasses while at him while she scribbled notes.

Cherney smirked, "Yeah I know another redneck reference, it happens. What I mean is, this guy has some fame and bragging rights behind him. He claims he's one of the Manson Family," said Cherney with a deliberate tone. Summers dropped her pen. James and Summers looked back towards the two-way glass and from there they sat in the break room they could see the killer sitting quietly. He then turned as if he was aware they were watching him. He calmly waved to them, which sent chills through both James and Summers.

"Doc, how did you find that out? I mean we can't even get prints off the guy because he slashed them off."

"I asked him," Cherney said in a matter of fact response. James was caught a little off guard by Cherney's flippant reply. "So he just came right out and told you he was one of Charlie's Family?" asked James.

"Pretty much," said Cherney as he took another drag off his cigarette. Summers stopped taking notes. "Did he tell you which member he was?"

"He told me Charlie called him Clem."

The name struck a chord in James's memory. Was it possible after 40 years Charlie was still pulling strings from prison? Captain Shelton's words came back to him. She was right there were a great deal of references to The Family and not just at the hospital.

"Clem?" questioned Summers.

"Steve Grogan," James quickly answered.

"That's right," replied Cherney.

"Is there anyway we can confirm it's really him?" asked Summers.

Cherney began flipping pages from the large folder on his lap. "Well until his fingerprints grow back I think we're gonna have to take his word for it. Or at least his written statement anyway. As his language skills are pretty limited. He doesn't have a tongue."

"Christ, did he cut out his tongue too?" asked James.

"No the Aryan Brotherhood did that for him in prison. Perfect way to silence a snitch. Apparently Charlie really does have a long reach from behind bars."

"You're telling me, Manson ordered the Aryan Brotherhood to silence Clem by cutting out his tongue," said Summers.

"I am yes. But that's not the weird part."

"Oh you mean it actually gets weirder?" questioned James. Cherney nodded, crushed out his cigarette and lit another.

"According to the police files, Clem was arrested for the murder of Donald 'Shorty' Shea. Manson was also part of that murder. Only Clem wasn't arrested and imprisoned until after Manson had his own trial. Clem and Charlie were sent to separate prisons."

"So Charlie got word to the A.B. to keep him quiet about killing Shorty?" asked James. Cherney shook his head no. "No, Charlie didn't give a shit at that point. He was already on death row for Tate/LaBianca, so it didn't matter if the Hinman murder or killing of Shorty were added to his sentence. You could only kill Charlie once. No, this is where it gets weird. He told me, Charlie had said something to him that he could never tell anyone," said Cherney pausing. "He didn't come here to kill you, Tom. He came to kill Miss Summers."

Summers and James both looked bewildered. "What are you talking about? Why would he be after Miss Summers?"

"He told you that? That he came here to kill me?" asked Summers. Cherney nodded.

"Just exactly when did Manson tell Clem to murder Miss Summers?" inquired James as he watched Cherney crush out another cigarette and then slowly look up to them both.

"1972."




Chapter Nineteen

1972


"I wasn't even alive in 1972," claimed Summers.

"I told you it was weird," remarked Cherney.

James stood up and tried to put it all together. "So let me get this straight, Doc. You're telling me everything that's happened in the last 48 hours all leads back to Charles Manson?"

"No I'm not saying that at all. What I am saying is the guy in the room with the two-way glass told me Charlie ordered him to kill Miss Summers."

"Thirteen years before I was born?"

"I didn't say any of it made any sense."

Summers stood up and slammed her notebook down. "I want to talk to him." James tried to calm her. "That may not be such a good idea. If he told Doc here he's on some kind of weird mission from Charlie to kill you then maybe part of his plan is to get you into the same room, close enough to fulfill Charlie's prophecy."

"I don't care, Tom. I want to talk to him and if you don't let me I can have 20 more agents here inside of half an hour and we will take over this case," commanded Summers.

James could see the determination in her eyes. "Okay, but you're not going in there alone. I want you to vest up and give me your sidearm," ordered James. He could see Summers did not like the idea of going inside unarmed. "It's not negotiable Ashton. Don't worry, I'm going to be standing right next to you and believe me if Clem makes any kind of sudden moves, they will be his last."

James, Summers and Dr. Cherney headed into the interview room. The moment Ashton stepped inside Clem began to laugh and point his handcuffed hands at her.

"I'm special agent Ashton Summers of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, it's my understanding you have communicated to Dr. Cherney you were instructed by Charles Manson in 1972 to kill me. Is that correct?" she asked as Clem stared glassy eyed at her. He grinned and began to rock his body back and forth and nodded yes.

"Do you mind telling me how this is possible, since I wasn't born yet?" The three of them watched Clem scribble onto Summers yellow legal pad the answer.  "Charlie knows everything."

"Charlie's in prison, Clem. He's been there since 1970," said James as Clem turned ignoring his comment. Cherney interjected, "Clem, why would Charlie want Miss Summers dead?"

Clem quickly scribbled again on the pad of paper. "Only the sow knows why."

Cherney turned his head sideways as he read Clem's scrawl. "The sow? What the hell does that mean?" asked Cherney, his temper beginning to flare. He jerked Clem's chair around to face him, "You think you're real fucking funny don't you asshole! It's not enough you spin this hippie bullshit on everyone, but then you have to insult Miss Summers on top of it all!" James pulled the angry doctor away from Clem, while Summers continued to try and find out exactly why Charles Manson wanted her dead.

"Clem, never mind that. Look at me. Tell me why. If you don't tell me, you're going to rot in prison for trying to kill a federal officer and no one will ever know. Now is your chance to be heard and believed. If you don't take it now, everyone from here on out will think you're just crazy old Clem. The old burnt out hippie, who is still following Charles Manson like some psychedelic pied piper."  Clem looked directly into Summers eyes. She had his complete and undivided attention. "Come on Clem, tell me, I'm listening, why does he want me dead?"

Clem slowly reached out for the pen and legal pad without removing his gaze from her. Her eyes held his. She knew if she looked at the pad he might stop and never tell her. "That's right Clem, it's okay tell me. I'll believe you."

As Clem began to write a loud shout came from outside the interview room. "Open that fucking door right now!" demanded a firm male voice. Summers, James and Cherney all looked towards the door in unison as it flew open. Clem began to write faster.

A tall, scruffy looking man stood holding a weather-beaten leather brief case in his hand. He looked wildly at the three of them. "Are you fucking kidding me? You assholes are interrogating my client without his attorney present? Do you seriously want to just give millions of taxpayer dollars away? Get the fuck out of here!" he commanded. Cherney stepped up. "Hold on a second. Your client has not only committed murder this morning, but also attempted to murder three law enforcement officials—one of them being a Federal Agent," shouted Cherney as he got back into the attorneys face.

"Back off!" shouted the attorney, shoving Cherney away.

James and Summers stepped in. "Your Clem's attorney?" asked James. "My name is Rolan Chessman and his name is Steve Grogan not Clem. Get your facts straight."

Captain Shelton stepped into the doorframe of the interview room. Her solid figure and calm voice brought the volatility of the room back to a professional tone. "Mr. Chessman, tend to your client and lose the vulgar language while you're in my department, as for the rest of you, I want all of you out here right now," she said quietly, stepping back into the main room.

James, Summers and Cherney filed out like scolded children. She pulled a finger to the three of them. As they walked to her the four of them formed what appeared to be a huddle. The Captain's demeanor changed instantly. "You guys get anything out of him?"

"A lot of hippie nonsense Cap," chimed Cherney. "He didn't want to talk to us, just Agent Summers," said James. Summers seemed confused by the whole change in the Captain's attitude but then realized it was all a front for the sake of Chessman. Shelton gave Summers a look that asked for information. "So Miss Summers? What did he write down?"

"Shit. I left it in there," she suddenly remembered. Turning back toward the interview room, Summers noticed Clem was turned away from Chessman.

"Well you can't get it now or Chessman will have us all by the balls for sure," said Shelton. James smirked at her comment.  The Captain was a real team player he thought. Summers continued watching Clem and Chessman. She saw Clem tear the sheet of paper he had been writing on away from the pad. He then tried to hide it away as she noticed Chessman was making no effort at all to speak with Clem.

"Tom, something is wrong," she said. James didn't hear as his attention was with Shelton and Cherney.

"Well regardless Cap, we have to find out why Clem took such a risk trying to kill Agent Summers," said James as his attention was turned to Cherney who kept searching his pockets. "Doc? What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I can't find my lighter."

The howl and screech of flammable combustion pierced the ears of everyone in the room as Clem's body slammed against the window of interview room one. The soundproof room muffled his tongue-less screams. James and Summers saw fire engulf the interview room, consuming Chessman and Clem. "Jesus! Grab an extinguisher!" screamed James as he ran for the interview room door. He jerked and pushed on the door. "Who has the key?"  Cherney ran to the glass and could see a chair shoved up under the doorknob wedging it shut. Through the glass he could feel the intense heat trying to get out. Cherney backed away in shock as he watched Chessman dance around the room burning and flailing his flaming arms like a toy marionette. Clem pressed his disfigured face against the bulletproof glass. His eyes were wild with fear.

"Why the hell isn't the sprinkler system coming on?" shouted Cherney. Shelton ran to the fire alarm and pulled it. The bell began to ring but no water came.

Summers picked up a chair to try and smash through the glass as Clem placed his hand against the glass with the rapidly burning yellow legal paper inside it. Summers dropped the chair as she moved up close to read what the burning paper said. Disintegrating in front of her was the only clue that would tell her why Manson had ordered Clem to kill her. Agent Summers, shook her head as the paper burned away into black ashes. Captain Shelton stood behind Summers watching the bizarre tragedy play out in her very own police headquarters.

"What did the paper say?" said Shelton as she tried to shake Summers into focus. Summers turned to her and whispered. "It said, 'Because you're family.' "




Chapter Twenty

Family


The cool breeze of the Pacific Ocean blew through Thomas James' salt and pepper hair. Driving with the window down the wind was comfortable and relaxing. Summers sat in the front passenger seat of his Crown Victoria. It was a typical generic detective's car for most law enforcement agencies. In San Francisco it was of course becoming politically incorrect to drive one. She was certain before the end of the year everyone would be driving a hybrid.

Summers watched the city as it passed her window. The rows and rows of 19


 century Victorian houses were squeezed together like sardines in a can. It was for lack of a better term, stereotypical.

"It's nothing like Hollywood," she said to herself as she turned and noticed Inspector James was deep in thought. His driving was deliberate and focused. She wondered what he was thinking about. Was it the chance his captain was taking by letting them take this course of action in the case? Was it the phone call she had made to her field director in Los Angeles that had made this trip possible? Or was it the fact that in less than 20 minutes they would be at the gates of San Quentin Prison arranging an interview with Charles Manson?

"Do you think he really will talk to us?" she asked breaking his intense concentration. James mulled over her question, collecting his thoughts.

"It's anyone's guess, Miss Summers," he said.

"Ashton."

"Sorry?"

"Call me Ashton, there's no need to be so formal," she smiled. James smiled back and nodded his acceptance of her offer. He then drifted back into his focused thinking and began to wonder if Charlie would talk to them.

"You really do have a lot on your mind, don't you?"

"What? Oh I'm sorry, I do yes. Forgive me the last 24 hours have been intense to say the least. I mean, if someone told me last week I would be going to interview Charles Manson, I would have laughed. Now it's no surprise to me at all. I mean it actually seems to be the only thing that does make any sense at the moment."

Summers sympathized and forced a fake smile. Her thoughts reflected back to the conversation she had with her field director, Paige Collins.

"You have to break the seal on the records Paige. If I was adopted I need to know."

"Summers, even the bureau has to be careful when we go slipping between the cracks. Getting background information is one thing, but when it involves sealed adoption records that's most likely going to involve a judge."

"Paige, this guy told us he was ordered to kill me by Charles Manson back in 1972. Do you know how insane that is?" 

"I do and I understand Agent Summers. Listen I will handle things on this end. Luckily the L.A. Bureau was involved in the Manson case so I shouldn't have too much trouble getting you some answers. But I need you to listen to me closely Ashton. You need to keep silent about the case your working on here in Hollywood. There have been some new developments. I can't tell you about them right now. But I can confirm the San Francisco case is connected. Whatever you do, do not tell Inspector James anything...at least not yet," said Collins, ending the call. 

Summers looked back over to James as she remembered her director's orders. She wondered what exactly the new developments were.

"What exactly do you expect to find out from Manson?" asked James. Now it was Summers turn to be snapped back into the present.

"I'm sorry Tom, my mind was wandering."

"Considering what happened this morning, I'm really not the least bit surprised," he said.

The two of them sat silently as James made his way through the vast maze of city streets. Each stoplight was either another hill or a one-way street. Both James and Summers wondered about each other and how they came to be here together in this moment. Summers broke the silence once again. "Tom, what happened to you inside The Aleris?"

James felt his blood chill as he thought about being dragged through the hotel by a dead man. Was it a bad dream? Did I pass out and simply hallucinate? He wondered. But I saw those three men...he tried to shake it from his mind. They were crucified upside down, each one with a letter carved...his thoughts were broken by his car radio.

"Inspector James, call coming in from Captain Shelton are you able to receive?" asked the dispatcher.  James took the handset and clicked an answer. "James here, yes I'm able to receive, go ahead."

"Tommy? You there?"

"Yes Cap, I'm here."

"Something wrong with your cell phone? I've been trying to call you for the last 10 minutes." James reached into his pocket fumbled around until his found his phone. Looking at it he realized he had it set to silent and then he noticed he had indeed four missed calls. The first three were from Captain Shelton. The last one was a missed call, from Michael Kirkland.

"Cap, I think there is something wrong with my phone."

"We need to talk, Tommy and not over the police band."

"Tell her to call my number," said Summers.

"Agent Summers said to call us on her phone."

"Okay, I'll call you in two, over."

James replaced the handset. Summers gave him a puzzled look. What do you think that was about?"

"I don't know, but I think there is something definitely wrong with my phone," said James as Summers' phone rang. She quickly handed it over directly to James.

"Thomas James here."

"Tommy, it's Shelton. You're gonna have to cancel your trip to see Charlie."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Seems Charlie is in the prison hospital. Another inmate decided to go all Jim Morrison on him and light his fire this morning. He's suffered multiple burns to his face and chest."

"Is he alive?"

"Last report he was."

"Cap, this is too much of a coincidence. Clem burns to death in our station right in front of us along with this guy Rolan Chessman and now you're telling me someone tried to burn Charlie too?"

"That's the long and short of it Tommy. Seems like the Devil is working overtime. You better get back here right away."

"We're on our way. Oh, and Cap, one more thing. I think it's time we found out just who in the hell is Rolan Chessman."




Chapter Twenty-One

Rolan Chessman


James sat parked on the side of the road, listening intently to his voice mail messages. As he heard the missed call from Kirkland's number his face became white as chalk. Summers noticed his reaction and instantly James threw the car into gear and flipped on the silent police lights as he began to navigate through the streets of San Francisco to Kirkland's home.

"What's going on?" asked Summers.

"Apparently someone doesn't want Charlie talking to anyone. An inmate tried to burn him this morning."

"You're kidding?"

"I wish I were," said James, turning the car away from the station. "Can I can drop you off for about half an hour, Ashton?"

"Where are you going?"

"I need to check on something and I don't want your investigation to become compromised."

"No, I'll go with you."

"Seriously Ashton, I'd rather do this alone. It's personal."

"It's personal now for me too, Tom. Whatever it is you need to do, you can trust me. I know something has you spooked and it's not Charles Manson."

"Okay look, I know this will sound crazy, but I just missed a phone call from Michael Kirkland."

"Your partner? I thought he died in the hotel."

"The call, it came from his house."

"Was it Kirkland? What did he say?"

Both James and Summers were startled by ring of her cell phone. "Agent Summers here. Sure just one second. It's Captain Shelton again." James reached over and took the phone. "Yeah Cap, what's up?"

"Tommy, I just got a call from the warden over at Quentin he said they reviewed the security tapes. No one attacked Manson. The asshole lit himself on fire."

"He burned himself? That doesn't make any sense at all," said James.

"Warden said Charlie did it at 11:13 a.m. exactly, same as the fire here in the station," stated Shelton. There was a brief pause on the phone. "Tommy you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here."

 "What the hell do you think it means?" Captain Shelton asked.

"Cap, I have to check something out, Agent Summers and I will be back in an hour."

"No, I want you back here right now. There's some heavy weather coming Tommy, don't fuck around. I don't need to lose another detective today," she demanded. James dropped, the handset and spun the car around a sharp corner, accelerating up the hill to Kirkland's house. The front bumper scraped the curb as he screeched to a stop and climbed out of the car. Summers quickly tried to keep pace. "Tom, slow down and tell me what the hell is going on."

James didn't listen to Summers. He was practically running to Kirkland's house and when he reached the door, he kicked it, hard, without knocking. Summers made her way up the stairs and met James as he was gaining entrance to Kirkland's home.

"Hey you realize this is illegal right?"

"Not if a Federal Agent suspects a known felon to be hiding inside," said James.

Both officers drew their guns and slowly made their way inside the house. The entire place was trashed. Garbage was dumped upside down on the floor. The furniture was turned over and broken.

"Someone was here looking for something," said Summers as she made her way deeper into the small living space. James looked at the mess. Holes were punched into the walls and it looked as if someone had sprayed some graffiti while they were wrecking the place. James stopped suddenly as he noticed a painting over the fireplace.

"What is it?" asked Summers.

James pointed, "That painting doesn't belong there." Summers looked up noticed the back of a large piece of artwork. It had been hung up oddly, causing the image to face the wall. The picture wouldn't be visible unless you picked it up and turned the frame over. Written on the back of the canvas in black were words James could not make out.

    ÃÂÒÚÓ, „‰Â ‡Ì„ÂÎ˚ Ì ̇ÒÚÛÔËÚ

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

Summers looked curiously at the odd writing.

 "That, my friend, is Russian."

James looked at her confused. "Russian?" he asked. Summers nodded. "It says, The Place Were Angels Will Not Step or stand, something like that."

"You read Russian?" he asked. She smiled back at him. "Read it, write and speak it fluently. It was part of my training. Does it mean something to you?"

"Yes it does. Those very same words were written on a can of film, but were in German. In Nazi script, no less. I found it in the crawlspace inside Room 1220 at The Aleris Hotel."

"Have you seen the film yet?"

"No, I put the can inside my jacket pocked, that was before..." James paused as it made him think of the events that followed.

 "Before what?" asked Summers as she used the camera on her phone to capture the image of the Russian script. James quickly changed the subject. "What's on the other side of this thing?"

Summers turned the painting over and immediately recognized the image "It's the 'Witches Sabbath' by Goya."

James felt a sick feeling come over him as he looked at the painting. There were several old women surrounding a large goat that stood on its hind legs. Some of the women were holding dead infants. Other women waited in a line with living babies. In the distance there were three dead infants being hung by the neck from a spear impaled in the desert sand. It appeared that the women were sacrificing the children to the goat.

"You said this didn't belong here. How can you be sure?"

"I've been here a thousand times and Mike would never have anything like this in his home. He's a Christian. Something like this would disgust him."

"So what was here on the fireplace before?"

"A painting of Jesus with the children."

Summers looked at the painting again. It was obvious that this was the absolute antithesis of the image Kirkland had placed here before. Summers felt there was a definite message being presented here.

"Let's keep looking," said Summers.

 The two investigators resumed their search of the house. James pushed through the garbage and overturned furniture as he made his way into Kirkland's bedroom. The door was partially open. Quietly he pushed the door open. The room was as much of a disaster as the rest of the house. James stepped inside and stopped when he saw fresh writing on the wall above Kirkland's bed.

James stepped over and lightly touched the dripping wet words. To his fear it was exactly as he suspected, the writing on the wall was blood. James called out to Summers.

"Agent Summers, I've got another one for you in here."

Summers moved as quickly as she could to get through the house without tripping. Finally reaching the bedroom she immediately saw the writing. She looked at James and then back to the wall. The fear in her eyes was apparent.

"It's Russian again, isn't it?" asked James.

"Yes it's definitely Russian,"

"What does it say?" asked James.

"Tom, the missed call on your cell phone. The one that came from here at the house, who was it?" asked Summers as she continued to examine the words written in blood.

"I don't know, but I can tell you it was a girl," he said.

"A girl? What did she say?"

James began to speak when his voice left him. Taking a moment to regain his composure he whispered the words as if he were telling a secret. "She said, 'Kirkland isn't dead.' "

The words caught Summers by surprise.

"Did she say anything else?"

James hesitated and then finally spoke. "No, she hung up right after she said it. Why, is that what it says?"

"No, that's not what it says."

"Then what does it say?"

"It says, Julie Jackson burns in hell.' "

James became white as a ghost and backed into the wall.

 "Tom, are you okay?"

James turned and looked directly into Summers eyes.

"The voice on the phone..."

"You recognized it?" she asked.

"I can't be sure, but I think it was Julie Jackson."




Chapter Twenty-Two

Julie Jackson


Agent Summers slowly turned her head to emphasize her puzzled expression. Her body shook with a chill as she started to speak but she stopped herself.

"Is something wrong Agent Summers?" asked James. This time it was Summers who needed to find her voice. "Did you just say Julie Jackson?"

James stared at her silently. "Yes, why?" he asked cautiously.

Summers looked around the room as if she was attempting to be certain they were alone.

"Why are you here?" asked James in a curious tone that caught Summers off guard. But before she could answer James continued, "I assumed that because you're FBI, you were here because of Hermann Kritzler. But you didn't flinch when I mentioned the film can in the crawlspace at the hotel. So you obviously didn't know anything about that. What happened at the station house was as much as shock to you as it was to us. So if you didn't come here for Kritzler, Valerie Rivera, Amanda Carlyle, or Clem..." James hesitated as he looked at Summers. Running the names through his mind he tried to sort through why she was here. He narrowed his eyes and looked dead into hers. "It's me. You came here for me. Why? Does it have something to do with Julie?"

"Yes," said Summers in a flat, matter of fact voice. She left the room and made her way out of the front door and back to the car. James quickly followed her feeling frustrated and confused.

"Do you know Julie? Is she in some kind of trouble? Just what the hell does that writing on the bedroom wall mean!" he shouted after her.

Summers reached into the backseat of the car and pulled an evidence pouch from her interview folder. With her back to James she clutched the folder against her chest. She closed her eyes.

"What the hell is going on?" James demanded.

Summers took in a deep breath and then turned to James so that they were face to face. She held the evidence folder out, offering it to him.

"This is why I am here."

James looked at Summers cautiously and then opened the file. A series of photos spilled out from the folder and onto the ground.

James looked down at the top photo and recognized it immediately. The glossy black and white photo had captured the image of a bisected nude female laying in a vacant lot.

"You're here because of The Black Dahlia?" asked James.

"I wish, look again," she said as she pointed to the second photo. This one was a close up of the face of the victim. The eyes were glazed, the mouth gashed into a sardonic grin.

"It's Elizabeth Short, so what?"

"No, Inspector James, it's not. Her name is Julie Jackson."

James looked at Agent Summers with disbelief in his eyes. She felt the pain of his lost blank stare.

"This is Julie? What happened?" asked James through gritted teeth. "I mean, do you know what led up to this? Is there a suspect?"

"No, there's no suspect."

"You must have some idea otherwise you wouldn't be here in San Francisco talking to me."

"I believe our cases our linked but I'm not supposed to tell you that," said Summers as she pulled the report from the file and handed it to James. His eyes scanned the page of the coroners notes: Nude bisected female found in vacant lot. Jane Doe identified via fingerprints as Julie Anne Jackson. 

"This murder was obviously meant to be a copycat of Black Dahlia, just as yours was supposed to be a reconstruction of the Arbuckle scandal," said Summers. James thought hard about what he had seen in the hotel and looked again at the photos Summers had shared with him.

"This is your case? This copycat of Elizabeth Short?" asked James. Summers nodded as she tried to read his expression.

"Did you take it over from the Los Angeles police department?"

"No, it was ours from the beginning," said Summers.

"Then that means your case is connected to another murder. One you took over from local jurisdiction. That case led you to Julie didn't it?"

Summers, knew she could no longer keep James in the dark.

"Yes, but I swear Tom, I had no idea your case was going to link to me personally. Whatever this is, it's beyond any kind of traditional investigation."

"Don't give me a bunch of mis-directional bullshit. What was the case that lead you to Julie?" demanded James.

"Two days ago in the early morning hours the Hollywood police were called to the address 401 S. Alvarado Street. The manager of a retail store met them in a panic. He was trying to calm a vagrant who kept shouting, 'He's dead' and pointing to an abandoned house across the street. The police made their way inside the house where they certainly did find a body. But this was someone who had been dead a very long time. The corpse was lying flat on it's back and was extremely well dressed with a diamond studded lapel pin that carried the initials, 'W.D.T.' This, of course, told the officers who ever it was had money when they were buried."

"Were buried? Are you saying someone dug the body up?" asked James.

"That's exactly what I'm saying and robbery was obviously not the motive, otherwise the diamond pin would have been missing. That same morning the police also received a call from the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Inside their Catholic mausoleum a vault that contained the body of film director William Desmond Taylor had been broken into and his body was missing. The crypt's marble faceplate was shattered in half and the casket was left lying on the ground empty."

"Who's William Desmond Taylor?"

"One of Hollywood's most famous unsolved murder cases."

"The body in the house was his?"

 "Yes, someone had taken his corpse and delivered it to the abandoned house."

"And the only way the police knew it was there was because of the homeless man?"

"Yes, but it doesn't stop there. The store manager told police when he arrived to work that morning, he found a book on the doorstep outside the store with a note on the inside cover."

"What did the note say?" asked James as Summers removed a clear plastic evidence bag containing a monogrammed embossed note. Gently he took it from her hands. The moniker bore the initials, M.N. The paper was old and the ink faded. James looked at Summers with a questioned expression.

"Mabel Normand," she said.

The name meant nothing to him as he examined the contents of the note.

To My Dearest Sweet William,

If only we had shared the night.

                               Mabel

James felt even more confused. "How does this connect to Julie in any..." James suddenly felt a chill in his heart as he read the name Mabel. His memory flashed to Fatty Arbuckle in the hotel.

"How am I doin Mabel?" James remembered the dark haired girl kneeling down next to him. "You're doing just fine Fatty, just fine."

Summers could tell James was remembering something important.

"What is it Tom?"

"Do you have a photograph of Mabel Normand?"

Aware that James was on to something, Summers said, "It's there in the file." James flipped through the folder and found a studio photograph of Mabel Normand. His blood ran cold. It was her.

"Taylor? Is he in here too?" asked James knowingly as Summers nodded quickly. James flipped through more pages until he came across the photo of William Desmond Taylor wearing the diamond studded lapel pin. His knees left him as James slowly slid down to the ground with his back against the car. Summers knelt down next to him. "Tom!"

"Holy Jesus Christ, Ashton. They were all there."

"Who?"

"I saw them."

"Saw who, Tom? You're not making sense."

"Yesterday when I was in room 1219 I saw this man, William Desmond Taylor."

"You saw him? How?"

"I don't know how, but he was there with her, Mabel Normand."

"Tom, that's not possible! Unless you're telling me you had some kind of experience up there."

"What are you saying? You think I saw ghosts?"

"You have to admit whatever is going on here isn't natural."

"I'm really having a hard time accepting that. But I also can't deny something happened to me in that hotel and whatever it is, it's personal for both of us."

"Tom we need a plan."

James suddenly remembered. "Wait, you said there was a book."

"Book?" quizzed Summers.

"Yes, with the note from Mabel inside it."

Summers responded nodding yes.

"What was the book? I mean the title?"

Summers retrieved a leather briefcase from the car. Slowly she opened it and removed the book that was sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag. She handed it to James. The book was old and worn, same as the note. It showed considerable wear on its black hard covers as James held it in his hands. The front was embossed with gold stamp printing and showed Egyptian pillars, a great winged seal with hieroglyphs. The title gave James an involuntary shiver as he read it. It was called The Book of Lies.




Chapter Twenty-Three

The Book Of Lies


As James examined the book his mind wandered back to Julie.

"Why weren't you supposed to tell me our cases were linked?" asked James.

"Honestly, we thought you were a suspect. I don't mean for that to sound offensive Tom. It's just that ... I know you were close to Julie at one time," said Summers as she collected the crime scene photos and replaced them in the file.

"She was my first," said James as he stared blankly away from her. His expression then quickly changed to one of question. "Wait, how do you know that Julie and I were close?"

"From the items we collected from her home in Los Angeles."

James' detective mode took over as he tried to push away his emotions from being the victim. Losing a teenage crush was one thing, but losing your first love was another. He had to force himself to take control and not lose sight of the fact there was a serial killer walking the streets of San Francisco.

"What sort of things?" James inquired.

"You name it and it pertained to you," said Summers as she located a list of items from the file on Julie Jackson.

"Can you be a little more specific?"

Glancing at the list, Summers began to rattle off several of the items, none in any particular order. "I wouldn't know where to begin, but she had photos, newspaper clippings about cases you worked on. Oh and the diaries she had written about you, they go back as far as 1969."

James was stunned. He was astonished that Julie had been so interested in him that she would follow his life and career. "Anything else?"

"Anything else? Isn't it clear she worshipped you? Under different circumstances I would say this borders on stalking."

"There has to be a reason, Agent Summers. Yes I admit we were in love at one time, but that was a very long time ago. And if she truly was interested in me, why didn't she attempt to contact me? It's not like she didn't know where look."

Summers nodded in agreement. "That's true, but perhaps she had a reason for keeping her distance."

"What possible reason would she have? I'm not married, I've got no kids. It's not like there was anyone in the way."

"Yes for you, there was nothing in the way, but maybe she felt there was something or someone keeping her from you."

The comment caused James to seriously pause. He wondered if someone had been keeping her from contacting him, who could it be? And why? James felt for a moment he had the answer, then it slipped away from him as Summers broke his concentration with her next question.

"Just exactly when was the last time you can absolutely say you saw Julie Jackson, Inspector James?"

"That sounds like the kind of question you ask a suspect, Special Agent Summers," said James with an indignant tone.

"It's the same question you would be asking me if the situation were reversed."

"It was at her mother's funeral," said James.

"You were still in a relationship then?"

"No, we had broken up long before then. Her mom and dad divorced around the time we were both 17. Her mother had become a drunk and her dad just couldn't put up with it anymore, so he moved away to Hollywood. Julie, felt obligated to stay and look after her mom."

"What happened?"

"Her mother's drinking had become all consuming and Julie had to drop out of school. She worked two jobs just to pay her mother's bills. We began to see each other less and less. She really didn't have anytime for a boyfriend anymore and I understood, but I still couldn't help but feel abandoned. I made several attempts to do things for Julie that would help her stay positive. In the end it only seemed to annoy her. Eventually she got sick of her mother's constant abuse and moved to Hollywood to be with her dad."

"She just left you without a word?"

"No, she was very honest and upfront with me about her decision to leave San Francisco. She said she couldn't stay and watch her mother drink herself to death. As much as she loved me, she said she needed a new life in another place."

"And this new life didn't include you," added Summers.

"Exactly, so she decided to kill our relationship and bury it along with her past."

Summers raised an eyebrow. "Kill? That's an odd way to describe the end of your relationship with Julie."

"Odd or not. It's how I feel about it. Felt about it," James said decisively.

Gathering her notes and photos, Summers placed them back into the case file. She could tell James was still bitter about not being given the chance to share a life with Julie Jackson. "It may be none of my business Inspector James, but for what it's worth I can tell you she regretted letting you go. She regretted it for the rest of her life."

The comment hung stale in the air, catching James off guard.

"How can you know that?" he asked with a tone of pain in his voice.

"I'm a woman, and a woman just knows. But if you want a more defined answer, then the obvious should be apparent to you. She kept diaries about you, followed your career. I think it's safe to say Tom, she never stopped being in love with you, and you with her," said Summers as she attempted to show him she was sympathetic to the situation. "At least that's my two cents worth."

James nodded in agreement.

"You're right," he said wiping a tear from his eye.  He pulled his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and removed a worn out faded photograph of Julie and himself taken shortly after they began dating. Warming to her sympathy, James shared the photo with her.

"This was us back in December 1969. Our first Christmas as a couple." Summers took the photo and looked at their stolen moment, frozen in time.

"Thank God for Polaroid's, huh?" she said trying to lighten the mood. She handed it back to James and watched him look deep into his past.

"I want to get whoever did this to her. Can you help me catch them?" asked James not looking up.

"Yes, I can. And I will," assured Summers.

"What do you need from me?"

"I need you to go to Hollywood with me and visit Julie's home."

"There is no way I can go. In case you haven't noticed, Ashton, I'm in the middle of a series of murders that belong in a Stephen King novel."

"I won't disagree with you there. But I'm FBI and our cases are linked, I'll get my director to speak with your captain to get you cleared for a couple of days."

"This whole thing is insane, but maybe you're right. Maybe the key to all of this begins with Julie," said James. Then he remembered a hitch in the plan—Summers wasn't supposed to inform him about why she was there.

"None of that matters now. The writing on Kirkland's wall makes it clear that the two cases are connected. Listen Tom, I'm going to contact my director now and tell her I'm taking charge of your case so our office can secure Kirkland's home for evidence."

James readily agreed as he turned and looked back at the home of his best friend. Summers stepped away to call her director. James once again looked at the evidence files Summers had on Mabel Normand, Taylor and Julie. He couldn't bring himself to look at the Black Dahlia photos. The thought of someone doing such horrendous things to Julie turned his stomach and tore at his emotions. Instead he tried to focus on the book that was found by the store manager. As he looked at the spine of the book he noticed the author's name for the first time—Aleister Crowley.  He felt as if he knew the name, but wasn't sure why.

James' attention was broken by the arrival of a plain looking sedan pulling into the driveway. Two men dressed in business attire stepped from the car. Summers completed her phone call and met with the men. She spoke briefly to them and they nodded in agreement at whatever instructions she had given them.

"Okay, Tom, let's go. I've got you complete clearance by the Bureau. We are taking over the case all the way back to Amanda Carlyle. We need to get back to your department and my director will meet us there. She'll smooth over any bumps you might have with your captain and inform her we need you in Hollywood for the next several days."

James and Summers climbed into his car and began to drive back to the station.

"Under normal circumstances, I would have fought this every step of the way. But actually I'm relieved to let someone else take the lead. So you said you need me to go to Julie's home, haven't the police already searched it?"

"When your name came up and I discovered you were a detective I knew I was going to have to interview you. So I had the place secured and no one else has been allowed to do a search without me present. Getting you to search it with me was imperative," said Summers as she rolled down the window letting the cool breeze billow through her hair.

"Why?" asked James.

"If I miss anything, any detail, I'm sure you will catch it. No one knows Julie better than you do, Tom."

"Don't be so sure, I haven't seen her in over 13 years and we were only together for five."

"But you were in love with her. And that never goes away."

James sighed as he stopped at the red light. His face was showing a slight agitation at the agent's confidence in his dedication to a faded love.

"You act as if by my going there with you I'm going to find some secret message she left for me to help solve her murder."

"I'm counting on it," said Summers when suddenly her face was sprayed with hundreds of beads of broken glass. The small diamond-shaped shards flew across from the driver's side window pelting her chest, arms and face. James gripped the steering wheel tightly as he tried to control the car while it spun in a half circle. The passenger side slammed into a parked car on the side of the road. Dazed, Summers, looked across at James who was shaking the bits of glass from his hair when she saw the grill of Hummer H2 coming directly at his side of the car.

"Tom LOOK OUT!" she screamed as the grill smashed into his door, sending more glass her way. The chrome grill looked like the teeth of a giant sized predator. The driver's side door began to buckle from its hinge. The heat from the roaring engine felt like a blast of angry, hot breath. James tried to gather his wits as he heard Summers screaming, but it sounded foreign to him. It was then he realized it wasn't Summers at all but the driver of H2. Looking to his left James saw two women glaring down at him with sinister smiles. Both girls were spattered with blood, cuts and bruises. The driver was wearing a black tank top. A wisp of brunette hair covered her right eye. For a moment he could have swore she winked at him as she gritted her teeth and gripped her own steering wheel. The passenger was dressed in a white shirt that that was sprayed with blood and exposed a bare left shoulder. Looking at the two of them, James would have believed he was suffering from double vision. Had it not been for the different colored shirts and hairstyles the two girls were wearing, he would not be able to tell them apart.

The driver screamed at him and then turned to the passenger and screamed at her. James couldn't understand what was being said, but whatever it was he knew he was in serious trouble as the girl in white raised an automatic weapon from her lap and pointed it directly at him. The girl in black revved the engine of the H2 and it lurched forward pushing his car into the parked car again, locking it into place.

"GET DOWN TOM!" screamed Summers as she fired a series of shots from her gun. The gunfire was earsplitting as James moved out of the way. The shots passed through the now non-existent drivers side window and cracked the windshield of the H2.

"GO!" commanded Summers. James didn't wait. He slammed his foot on the accelerator. White smoke and shrieks of metal screamed as he tried to free his car. A sudden barrage of loud pops echoed as a succession of holes began to appear in the hood of his car. Summers raised herself through her window and took aim at the females opposite of her in the H2. She fired another several shots, which caused the H2 to back up enough for James to get free. Summers locked eyes with the two girls.

"Oh Jesus, Devonia and Tarista Baranova," she said as she recognized the sisters.

Tarista raised her feet up and kicked them into the cracked windshield forcing it to split and bend. Summers knew she only had seconds before the shooting would resume. Summers ducked back down inside and reloaded her automatic. The sudden sound of machine gun fire erupted blasting glass in all directions from the hood of the Hummer.

"Call for backup!" shouted James.

Summers reached for the radio and saw it had been shot up in the initial volley of bullets from Tarista's M-4 assault rifle. It was useless.

"It's no good Tom, get us out of here before they hit us again."

James pressed his foot all the way to the floor, causing the car to screech as metal ground against metal causing sparks to fly between them and the parked car. Within moments they were free and driving. James was heavily disoriented and completely uncertain of which direction he was driving.

"What the hell just happened?" shouted James.

"Give me your gun and drive!" commanded Summers as she looked out the back window. She saw the H2 spin its wheels and start to give chase. She knew the Crown Victoria was no match for the Hummer. The only hope they had would be to either out drive or out run them.

"Whatever you do Tom, don't stop!"

Summers slid the bolt on her automatic and leaned out her window again taking two quick shots at the H2. Devonia accelerated the Hummer and quickly caught up with the Crown Victoria. Her black leather boots glistened as she gunned the foot pedal causing it to ram the Crown Victoria each time she pressed down. This gave James and Summers the feeling they were being kicked. James pushed the Crown Victoria hard as he watched the Hummer fill the review mirror. Dodging the on coming traffic, James was forced to slam on his breaks. This gave Devonia the chance she needed to catch James and Summers. He looked into the rearview mirror again and cringed seeing the Hummer approaching fast.

"Ashton, get back inside!" shouted James as he punched the gas again and swerved the Crown Victoria around the right side of the car that had been blocking his escape. Devonia drove the Hummer across the lanes of traffic knocking the smaller cars out of her path as if they were toys on a kitchen floor. Now she had the Hummer directly along side of the Crown Victoria. She slammed the H2 against the side of the Crown Victoria. James and Summers felt the bucking of the attack. The only thing he could do at this point was to try and fight back with his own car. James swerved the car into the side of the Hummer. Both cars bucked and sparked in the middle of downtown traffic. Tarista looked down at James with her M-4 pointed directly at him and slowly licked her lips suggestively.

James knew there was no way he could win this fight. It was only a matter of time before the Hummer crushed them or Tarista shot him dead. He had to think fast. Looking ahead, he realized the car was approaching Leavenworth from Green. This was his chance. James slammed on the breaks and then took a hard left onto Leavenworth darting behind the Hummer and drove north trying to put as much distance between himself and their attackers as possible. Devonia slid the H2 on Leavenworth putting the black and chrome behemoth up on two wheels.

"Come on you bitch—flip!" cheered James hoping the chase would end as abruptly as it started. His grin faded as he watched the H2 land hard back on all four wheels. James then had to focus on his own stretch of road. He pushed the engine bringing the speed up to 75 as he cut in and out of traffic shooting past the intersections of Union and then Filbert.

"They just turned left back at Filbert," said Summers as she watched intently through the back window.

"I've got three choices here, stay on Leavenworth, take a right on Greenwich or left at Lombard," said James.

"It's your city, and you just passed Greenwich," she said.

"Someone wants one of us dead pretty bad to take this kind of risk," said James as he quickly decided to take a left onto Lombard Street. Summers immediately recognized the crazy twisting street from dozens of movies. James navigated the narrow road expertly as he drove the Crown Victoria in the opposite direction the way one street had been intended for.

Both James and Summers kept a look out for the Hummer as the Crown Victoria climbed the steep hill leading them to Hyde Street where James hit the brakes.

Devonia punched the accelerator to the floor as she saw the damaged Crown Victoria appear at the top of the hill. Tarista gripped the trigger of the M-4 automatic. Her eyebrows narrowed as she lowered her eye to the scope and placed the stock against her blood-covered petite, bare shoulder and took aim.

James and Summers looked at one another as they tried to decide which way to go when what sounded like a spray of gravel began knocking against the side of the car.

Summers looked up as she saw the H2 coming at them full force.

"Brace yourself!" she screamed as the Hummer slammed into the nose of the Crown Victoria causing it to lift up and land back down on the hood of the Hummer. Devonia gripped the gear with a bloodied hand. She locked the gear down into four-wheel drive and pushed the accelerator, causing the rear tires to spin dirt into the air. James and Summers could feel the Crown Victoria rising higher.

"Oh my god, Tom they are trying to turn us over on our top," said Summers.

Tarista screamed curses at the two of them in a language James recognized, but didn't understand. Summers reached across the front seat and slammed her foot on top of James's foot trying to keep their leverage by driving into the Hummer. Both vehicles ground into one another as their rear wheels spun. The H2 had the advantage as its front two wheels gave it more traction. Suddenly the Hummer pulled away and the front of the Crown Victoria landed hard nose to nose with the black beast. The engine died as James and Summers found themselves staring face to face with Devonia and Tarista. Both sisters turned to one another and smiled as Tarista removed the clip from the M-4 and found a replacement. Before she slid the clip into the gun she seductively licked the top bullet running her tongue down the length of it stopping only long enough to look up and blow a kiss at James. For the first time James got a good look at both of them. He stared silently at them as they stared at him. Summers looked back and forth between James and the girls, in the distance she could hear approaching sirens.

"You know them, don't you?" she asked.

James nodded he did as Summers slowly passed him back his gun.

"Just say when," she whispered to him as she watched Devonia stare her down while revving the engine of the Hummer. Tarista bashed out the remaining glass of the windshield with the stock of the M-4. Sirens closed in as the four watched each other intently. Devonia reached up and pressed a button that caused the sunroof to slide away as Tarista chambered the magazine.

"You take the tires and I'll try to hit the engine block," said James as he clicked off the safety of his gun.

"You got it," replied Summers.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Let's do it."

James raised his gun and began firing directly into the grill of the H2 sending sparks in all direction off the chrome front. Devonia punched it and the Hummer went into reverse to James's surprise. Before Summers could lock on to the tires, Devonia had the vehicle back into drive and coming at them with all the force the Hummer had. James quickly put the car into neutral as the H2 slammed into the nose of the Crown Victoria sending the car reeling backwards down Lombard Street.

"Hang on!" shouted James as he tried to get control of the car. The Hummer slammed into the Crown Victoria again batting it around like a cat toying with its prey. Tarista rose up and appeared through the sunroof aimlessly firing the machine gun back and forth, spraying bullets across the body of the Crown Victoria. Relentlessly the Hummer rammed them, twisting and pushing the car sideways down Lombard till the front hood of the car clipped another parked car and rolled up on its side, leaving the bottom of the car exposed to the H2.

Constant popping and holes exploded all around James and Summers as Tarista emptied the M-4 into what was left of the Crown Victoria. The shooting suddenly stopped but the revving of the Hummer's engine was loud and clear. James tried to twist himself from behind the wheel. He could hear the sound of the Hummer pulling away, which meant Devonia was about to ram them again.

James suddenly heard a siren blare past him kicking dirt into the air and then another.

"Ashton, we gotta get out of here!" he called but there was no answer. James looked down and saw Summers was unconscious. It was then he smelled the gasoline. He fumbled with his seatbelt to get free. As he clicked it open, he dropped from the drivers seat and landed on top of Summers. He checked her pulse and, to his relief, she wasn't dead. He was startled by two officers reaching through the missing windshield.

"Hurry I don't know how long we can keep the Hummer off of you," said one of the cops.

"Get her first, the fuel line is leaking," said James.

The two officers quickly pulled Summers free of the Crown Victoria. James made no effort to hesitate, quickly climbing out as the two officers carried Summers to the safest spot they could find. Looking back up the hill, James could see two cruisers attempting to keep the Hummer busy while he and Summers escaped. More cruisers came and more shots were fired. James couldn't tell now if they were the police or if it was Tarista shooting. He then heard Summers voice call his name. "Where's Tom?"

"I'm right here," he said as he came to her side. Summers looked up at him. "What happened?" she asked.

"RUN!" someone shouted at James, Summers and the officers when the H2 slammed into what was left of the Crown Victoria sending it the rest of the way down Lombard and into the intersection of Leavenworth where an oncoming semi slammed into the wreckage. A fireball shot into the air sending debris in all directions. Incredibly, the Hummer remained on all four wheels. The windows were shattered, the doors scraped by road rash. Officers converged on the Hummer surrounding it with their guns drawn. The driver's door creaked loud as Devonia stepped down defiantly. Tarista pushed open her door and also stepped out. Like Devonia she showed complete defiance as the two of them slowly raised their hands in the air and in unison they turned their heads directly at James and smiled.

"Where do you know them from?" asked Summers.

James swallowed hard, "From Hell."




Chapter Twenty-Four

From Hell


Field Director Paige Collins of the FBI, power walked across the marble tiles of San Francisco's City Hall. Her black heels struck firmly with each step she took and her toes gripped the inside her shoes tightly, as if to reflect her determination. At five foot four she was a petite woman, but her small frame was not to be underestimated. She could debate with the fiercest of opponents and also had engaged in her share of fights growing up.

Fortunately for Paige those days were now long behind her. Now she did her fighting with a razor wit backed by the power of the FBI. Paige was a beautiful woman whose long chestnut hair was always parted to the side usually draping over one shoulder of her tiny figure. She was naturally attractive and equally as sexy. Her eyebrows were fiercely dark and she knew this had always been to her advantage. Not only did it distract most men, but also most women recognized it as a strength that was not to be questioned. Paige Collins was indeed a force to be reckoned with. She did not lose and she expected her agents to share in her veracious will to solve all cases handed down to her department. She also wouldn't tolerate any agency or law enforcement institution to usurp her authority or to undermine any of her agents.

Paige pushed open the double doors of Mayor Hamilton Bransford's office and confidently walked to the edge of his desk. Sitting directly across from her was San Francisco's most powerful and influential man. Facing him down in his own office could be a career killer for Paige. Bransford's expression to her was a mix of surprise and arrogance. He gave her an incredulous stare and she returned his look with a dose of her own arrogant spite. Paige Collins was not afraid of Hamilton Bransford.

She glanced to her right and there, standing silently, was Captain Debra Shelton. From the look on her face, she already carried the marks of a political slapping. To Paige's left were both Inspector Thomas James and her best agent Ashton Summers seated on black leather sofa. Neither one of them spoke.  Bransford's face was red. It was obvious he had been screaming for answers and had everyone in the room shaken.

 "Summers, I want you and Inspector James to wait for me downstairs," said Paige as she kept her eyes locked on Mayor Bransford. Summers and James began to stand when Bransford barked the order for them to sit back down.

"They're not going anywhere until they explain to me, why they thought it necessary to turn the streets of my city into a war zone!"

Paige took in a calming breath before she spoke. "Mayor Bransford, my agent and an Inspector James, were not just victims of random violence. They were the targets of two of the most dangerous criminals on the FBI's most wanted list."

"And they came to my town to track down your agent!" he barked.

"They weren't after Agent Summers, they were after me," said James.

"No one told you to speak," growled Bransford.

"Excuse me, I will hear anything my agent or Inspector James has to say. And I'll thank you to show them a little more respect, if you don't mind," Paige said firmly as she continued to stare Bransford down.

"What are you talking about, Tommy?" inquired Shelton.

"I was the focus of the attack, it was just Agent Summers bad luck to be in the car with me at the time."

"Oh bad luck? That's how you're defining what happened on our streets today? So it's just bad luck when machine guns and a vehicle just short of being a tank are used to terrorize the people of San Francisco?"

"Mr. Mayor, let's put this into perspective. Both Agents Summers and Inspector James are safe, the Baranova Sisters were taken into custody alive and while what happened was an extremely dangerous event. None of our citizens have been hurt or killed," said Shelton.

Bransford stood up with so much force he sent his chair slamming against the wall. His brown eyes glared over his black-rimmed glasses. "Don't get me started on citizens being hurt or killed Shelton! Have you forgotten the hotel full of dead citizens found just yesterday? And now I'm learning San Francisco has been home to Nazi Hermann Kritzler for the last 20 years! Perspective? Give me a fucking break," he spit as he began to pace behind his desk, stopping only long enough to point a long, thin finger at Captain Shelton.

"You're going to burn for this Shelton, you, James and your whole fucking department. As for you Collins, you ever storm into my office again and speak to me in that tone, I'll have your skinny ass back in Hoover town stacking toilet paper in a closet, do I make myself clear!" he shouted, causing his gray hair to spill down over his glaring eyes.

Paige looked Bransford directly in the eye and spoke in a calm even tone. "I understand your frustration and recognize the pressure someone like you is under in a city such as this. However, having said that, your arrogant behavior tells me that without the title of this office and a team of professional ass kissers at your side, you're no more than the governor's bitch. Who, I might add, is just as spineless as you are. I do not have time nor patience for a bunch of elitist pricks who spend most of their time mutually jerking each other off. Now what your problem is, I can't say. Maybe you weren't hugged enough as a kid or you didn't measure up to your father. Either way, I'm here to tell you that Captain Shelton has the full support of the FBI. Agent Summers is in charge of this investigation with Inspector James as liaison of this city. As for me and my skinny ass, well, in just about an hour It will be sitting behind your fancy desk and this city will be under the jurisdiction of my directors who, as you know, reside back in Hoover town. They will be—without a doubt—very glad to inform your state leaders that they have every confidence in my abilities.  Do I make myself clear?"

Bransford was silent. As much as she infuriated him he knew she could back up everything she just said.

"Now, if you will excuse us Mr. Mayor, I'd like to speak privately with Captain Shelton, my agent and the inspector," she said as she crossed the room to the double doors. Paige held one door open to inform Bransford he was excused. Slowly the mayor pushed his chair back to his desk and stormed past Captain Shelton. As he made his way out the door and into the hall.

Captain Shelton was trying to hide her smile as she watched Paige take her place at Bransford's desk.

"Captain, don't ever hide a smile, guilty one or not," said Paige acknowledging the Captain's enjoyment of seeing someone put Bransford in his place. "Inspector James, is there anything you need before you and Agent Summers leave for Hollywood?"

"Yes director, I'd like full federal clearance."

Paige looked at James with an emotionless expression.

"Done. Anything else?"

"I do have one special request, Director Collins."

Paige gave James a slight smile, "I thought I just gave you one."

"It's important," said James.

"Okay I'm listening."

"I'd like CSI Jessalee Rivera on board with me as a consultant."

"You realize she is related to one of the victims," stated Paige.

"I do, however I feel that is to our advantage. The fact is the fire in the hotel destroyed our crime scene, leaving us virtually no evidence."

"And you feel her relationship to the victim may give us a deeper insight," stated Paige.

"Yes, she is also a witness to the what happened to Agent Summers and I at the hospital."

"I'll grant the request with the understanding that you assume full responsibility for her involvement with the case."

"I accept those terms director, thank you."

"Inspector James, you also understand, because she is family to Valerie Rivera, we can never present her as a witness in a court of law."

"Yes, but you're still willing to let her consult in the investigation?"

"It's a means to an end," said Paige flatly.

"Thank you. Now may I ask you is there anything in particular you want from me?" asked James.

"Yes there is. Captain Shelton, I want you to take Summers and James to the federal detention center and give them this note, it gives you the authority to supervise," said Paige as she handed Shelton the piece of paper.

"Supervise what?" inquired Shelton.

"Inspector James's private interrogation of the Baranova Sisters."




Chapter Twenty-Five

The Baranova Sisters


Stasya Gusarov announced her name to the heavily armed guard standing behind the bulletproof glass entrance of the federal detention center. The emotionless guard looked her over. Her long raven black hair was wound tightly into a bun. She kept her hands placed in full view of the guard as she tightly gripped her attaché case. She could feel his gaze waiting for her to look at him. She raised her sky blue eyes to his. Even though the security glass separated them her body still shook with an involuntary chill.  The guard consulted his approved list of names until he came to hers. Number 6. Stasya B. Gusarov. He motioned to her to step into inside the cylindrical room to his right, known as "The Capsule."

"Remove your overcoat before you step inside. Do you have a weapon in your possession?" he asked.

Stasya quickly followed the guard's order and removed her long gray cashmere overcoat. She placed it on the hook provided by the sliding door that would give her admittance to the capsule.

"I am not in possession of a weapon," she said waiting for the door to slide open. Stasya hated being screened in the capsule. The room was always extremely cold and the result was always the same. She knew the guard would be staring at her overly erect nipples.

"Place your briefcase on the conveyor table to your left please," commanded the guard calmly.

Stasya put her case down and waited. Seconds later a loud electrical buzz sounded. The door slid back allowing her to step inside while at the same time sending her case through a separate scanner. By the time her security scan was over, the conveyor belt would have delivered her case to the other side of the room.

"Please step to the center of the capsule and wait for the door to close behind you, then raise your arms to your sides in the form of the letter 'T' and close your eyes."

Stasya did as ordered. The moment her eyes closed another electrical sound came and she could hear the door slide closed behind her and feel the scanner pass in front of her as another scanner passed behind her. The guard watched the monitor from his side of the room and was satisfied with the result.

"You may lower your arms now and open your eyes," said the guard, pressing a button that activated the door on the opposite side of the capsule.

"Please step all the way through, your case is waiting for you to your left. Your coat may be collected upon your exit scan of the capsule when you are finished. You may now proceed to interview station seven, follow the red line on the floor to your destination," said the guard as he watched her step into the hallway. Stasya quickly gathered her case and put her back to the guard, she knew all too well the scanners gave the guards a perfect view of her anatomy and she wasn't giving him any more time than necessary to imagine her undressed. As much as she despised it, Stasya Gusarov realized this was the price one paid to be a translator for the federal government.

Stasya walked quickly down the long, windowless hallway. The glare of the overhead lights made the white walls and floor blur into one another. The red line below at her feet kept her focused on her destination. As she turned the corner she was met by another armed guard who stood in front of the door marked "Station 7." He wore a black beret and gray colored fatigues.

"Commander Gusarov?" inquired the guard. Stasya nodded and watched the guard come to attention and give her a proper salute. She nodded once again accepting his professional courtesy.

"You identification please, Commander."

Stasya placed her case on the floor and reached inside to retrieve her official federal ID. She handed it to the guard, who slid the card through a portable scanner.

"Thank you. Please place your right eye against the retinal scanner at the door," the guard instructed.

Stasya stepped up and placed her eye against the device and waited for the beep. A loud click sounded inside the door announcing the bolt had unlocked.

"Thank you, Commander," said the guard as he handed her back her ID and held the door open for her.

Once inside, Stasya made her way to an office that was marked, "Ready Room." She found it was unlocked. She stepped inside, closed the door and locked it. Behind her was a large oak desk with a single file lying dead center on top of it. She sat her attaché case down on the desk and reached inside to remove a large file which looked nearly identical to the one already there. The only difference was her file had a white label surrounding it with bold black print that read, "Cmdr. S.B. Gusarov-Eyes-Only." Stasya took her seat, broke the seal and began to read.




Inspector James and Captain Shelton stood in front of the interrogation rooms at station seven. From their position, they could see into both rooms through the two-way glass. Separated by soundproof walls, sat the Baranova Sisters—Devonia was on the left, Tarista on the right.

"Well if this ain't a shit load of deja vu," said Shelton. "Last time we did this the whole damn place went up in flames."

"And our witness with it," added James as he watched them intently.

Looking left he recognized Devonia as the driver of Hummer. She sat silently with her chin on her chest and her hands folded together on top of the table. Obviously she was handcuffed to a solid steel ring just under the table. She was still covered in blood and wearing the black tank top.

James walked a few steps to the right and peered into the room on the right. There sat Tarista Baranova, also still covered in blood. She too had her head bent to her chest. Both sisters had been tranquilized in order to place them safely inside the interview rooms. As James moved a step closer he wondered how long it would take for the drug to wear off. At the moment they both seemed innocent and looked more like victims than sadistic killers. As James touched the glass Tarista suddenly looked up directly at him. She slowly and deliberately licked her lips and smiled.

James walked back to the left side of the room only for his fear to be realized as Tarista turned her head and watched him move.

"Is it just me or does she know exactly where you are in this room?" asked Shelton.

"It sure seems that way doesn't it?" said James as he noticed Devonia was now awake and also watching him.

"Tommy, you sure you want to go in there with those two?" asked Shelton. James stepped back to the middle of the room where he could see both sisters equally.

"It's the only way I'm going to find out what the hell is going on, Cap. As soon as Summers finishes her meeting with Director Collins, maybe we will get some answers."

The sisters turned their heads and looked at the wall that separated them and both smiled as if they could see each other.

"Jesus Tommy, these two give me the flipping creeps," said Shelton.

"Tell me about it," he said, as Jessalee joined them. Coldly Jessalee stared at the sisters. James noticed her hands were trembling as she held her evidence kit in one hand and a report in the other.

"You got something, didn't you?" asked James.

"I got plenty, I'm on my way to conference with Summers and Director Collins. I've been asked to have you and Cap meet with us after your interview, Tom," said Jessalee as she walked away. James called to her. "Jessa, what is it?" he asked. Jessalee stopped and looked back to James and Shelton.

"All I can say is some of that blood that is splattered all over them, belongs to my sister." And with that, she abruptly turned and walked away. James watched her disappear around the corner. He looked back at Devonia and Tarista. To his surprise both of them were nodding their heads in a yes movement as if they were agreeing with Jessalee's claim. But how could Jessalee know the blood was her sister's? All the evidence in room 1219 was destroyed in the fire. He thought to himself. James knew this was hard on Jessalee and he intended to do everything he could to help her find closure on the death of her sister.

Both James and Shelton's attention was caught by the sound of an office door opening. They looked over and saw the raven-haired Stasya Gusarov step from the office into the room. In one hand she held a folder with Russian writing on the outside of it. In her other hand she held a King James Bible.

"Inspector Thomas James?"

"Yes?"

"I am Commander Stasya Gusarov I am here today to serve as your translator," she said with the trace of her home accent. James looked at Shelton for help. Shelton shrugged her shoulders.

"She's news to me. Collins never mentioned her."

James turned back to Stasya and looked her over slightly. He furrowed his brow and then spoke.

"You said you are Commander Gusarov?"

She nodded in silence. "Commander for what? The FBI?" inquired James.

"I am former KGB, Inspector. I was recruited by your government after the fall of the Soviet Union when I was 17."

Her statement confused both James and Shelton. James was certain he had not heard her correctly. "I'm sorry? You have been a member of the KGB since you were 17?"

"No, I said I was recruited by your government when I was 17. I became KGB when I was 14."

"Why so young?" he asked.

"Do you know who Andrei Chikatilo was Inspector James?"

"No, I don't."

"He was The Butcher of Rostov. He murdered, raped, and cannibalized over 53 lives. Most of them children."

James cringed at her words.

"Could we please sit down? What I have to tell you will take some time."

"I don't wish to sound indelicate, but I don't have a lot of time. Do you see the two sisters chained to the table inside those interview rooms?"

"Yes, the Baranova Sisters, I know who they are. They are in fact why I am here."

"Because you are a Russian translator?"

"No, because I have a connection with them. The three of us are mentally linked you might say."

James sighed heavily, "Don't tell me you're some kind of psychic, because I don't believe in that shit. I admit there is a lot of weird crap going on in this investigation, but if the FBI is sending me psychic translators I'll pass, I already have someone who can translate for me. Someone I trust a lot more than you, Commander," said James as he started to walk away from her. Stasya called after him.

"Tarista Baranova has the number 23 branded on the inside of her left breast. You saw it when she was raping you in a vision you had of her and her sister Devonia, while you were in hell."

James stopped cold. Shelton stared in shock.

"Tommy, what the fuck is she talking about?" asked Shelton.

James gave Shelton a look that everything was okay. He turned and looked into Stasya's eyes.

"Okay. I'm listening."

Stasya motioned to a nearby conference table. James and Shelton accepted her gesture and made their way to the table, sitting down across from her. Stasya placed the file on the table and gently folded her hands together.

"Inspector James, I apologize for taking such extreme measures to get your attention, but I wanted you to know I spoke the truth and for you to understand the severity of the subjects I am going to discuss with you."

James nodded in agreement.

"Good. Now I know you are curious as to how I knew about what happened to you, but now is not the time for that. You need to understand who I am and why we are meeting," she said.

Again James nodded that he understood and gestured for her to continue.

"In the autumn of 1986, I was 13 years old. I was very much like most girls of that age. I was quite curious about the world around me. I liked pop-music, dance and of course I had a keen interest in boys. Very often I would ride the trains when I was bored. I did not know fear until October 23, 1986, that was the day I was raped by the devil himself."

James and Shelton both shifted uncomfortably in their chairs as they intently listened to Stasya tell her story.

"I rode the train all day blindly. Not caring where it went. At 3 p.m. that day I noticed the train had stopped at Rostov. This was a pleasant surprise to me as my mother's sister lived in the village. I thought, wouldn't it be a nice surprise if I stopped to say hello. I left the train and entered the woods where I could gather some wild flowers for her.

"As I walked through the woods, I came upon a man who was sitting alone on a fallen dead tree. He seemed to be someone who came to enjoy the quiet of the forest. I tried to walk softly so that I would not disturb his meditation, but he looked at me and said 'hello.' I remember I smiled and continued to walk. He asked me where I was going? I told him to the village to surprise my aunt with wild flowers. He told me he was also going to the village and asked if he could join me on my walk. I, of course, did not see this as a problem. I thought it might be safer for me if I didn't walk alone through the woods."

Shelton covered her mouth with a trembling hand. It was all too obvious to her where the story was leading. Stasya continued, "I was very naive then as I still possessed my innocence. The man remarked that if I was looking for wild flowers he knew a perfect place and that it was only a small distance away. I remember I asked him how far. He pointed across the woods and I could see the flowers were indeed very close. Without hesitation I began to walk towards them. The woods were difficult from the path and I nearly fell, but the man he caught me and chided me to be careful. He offered me his hand and I accepted as we made our way over the rough terrain. Then the woods began to clear and we came to a beautiful open meadow.

"It was true it was a most perfect place to gather flowers. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be so many of them. The man smiled as he urged me to go and take as many as I liked. As I wandered deep into the meadow I imagined myself in an ocean of sweet scents and brilliant colors.

"With each step I took the sea of petals brushed against my ankles. I laughed from the tickling they gave me as they waved in the fall breeze. I clutched a variety of different shapes and sizes until I felt I had collected the perfect amount for my aunt. It seemed a shame to pick them, but I knew she would love them.

"The man waited patiently for me to finish and return to the woods. As we began to walk back into the woods he once again offered me his hand, happily I took it. I was so pleased with flowers that I couldn't stop gazing at them. I never saw the hammer before he embedded it into my skull.

"When I awoke, I remember thinking why did I go to sleep in the forest? I was lying on my back and looking up into the sky. The sky was not as bright as I remembered it. It was then that began to notice feeling a very strange warm sensation between my legs. I tried to move my head, but it felt too heavy to move. I looked down and could see my shirt had been ripped open and I saw red as if someone had spilled paint on me. It wasn't until I kept seeing my bare foot raise up and down in a rapid motion did I realize the man was taking away my innocence. My arms were flat on the ground above my head. I did not know what to do. I tried to speak, but could not. Suddenly he began moving faster until his grunts became moans. During this time he never looked at me and did not know I was watching him. His body tensed and his head jerked up and his eyes locked with mine. His face was the same color as the smearing on my torn blouse. When I saw his face I discovered it was not paint. He bared his teeth and they dripped with my blood. I heard him cry out and then I felt his release inside of me.

"He slowly lowered his body on mine and began to laugh until his laughter became uncontrollable weeping. The last thing I felt and saw was the claw of the hammer being jerked from my head."

Tears streamed down Shelton's face. The story had been overwhelming for her. James was certain it had forced his captain to remember her own nightmare in the schoolyard.

"Why didn't he kill you?" asked James.

"I believe he thought I was already dead. When he struck me with the hammer it placed me into a type of coma. I could not respond, but I was aware of everything he was doing to me."

"Then what happened?"

"The next morning a member of the militia was on patrol. He left the path to relieve himself when he saw my body. He called to his comrade that he had found something in the woods. His comrade joined him and they very quickly discovered that I was not dead. They carried me into the village and contacted their commanding officials. They were able to tell by the savagery that had been done to my body and skull, that I had been a victim of the Rostov Ripper."

"How many murders had been attributed to him by this time?" asked Shelton.

"34," said Stasya in a matter of fact tone.

"How long did you remain in the coma?" asked James.

"I remained in a coma for eight months. Under different circumstances the Soviet government would have let me die."

"Why?" asked Shelton.

"There is no use for a 13–year-old Russian girl left for dead in the woods. Unless she is the victim of the most wanted serial killer in the Soviet Union. When the KGB learned I was a victim of this murderer, they took charge over me. The militia was then removed from the case. I was the only known victim to have survived an attack by Andrei Chikatilo and they wanted to keep it secret. I was placed in a military hospital reserved for only generals and diplomats. When I regained consciousness I came to understand why the KGB worked so diligently to keep me alive. I was pregnant."




Chapter Twenty-Six

Pregnant


Both James and Shelton could not believe what they were hearing, but listened in astonishment as Stasya continued.

"Not only had I survived an attack by this monster, but I was also carrying his seed."

"Did you have the child?" asked Shelton.

"Yes."

James suddenly felt sick to his stomach but he knew he had to speak his thoughts. "The sisters— Tarista and Devonia—they're your daughters, aren't they?"

"Yes, Inspector James they are."

The statement hung in the air as only silence filled the room. For several moments no one spoke. James stood up and walked back to the front of interview room seven, staring at the twins. They too stared back at him. He turned back to Stasya. "So just exactly what are we doing here, Commander?" he asked.

"I am trying to help you understand what you are dealing with Inspector."

"So help me understand."

"You cannot apply traditional interviews procedures with them. You must be prepared before you make any attempt to speak."

"Prepared in what way? They're criminals, nothing more."

"That is untrue and you know it Inspector. To walk inside that room with either of them unprepared would be the biggest mistake of your life."

"Then what would you have me do? Douse them with holy water?"

"Evil doesn't fear such superstitious rituals of sacrament," she said with a steadfast conviction as she slammed the King James Bible down on the table. "But all evil trembles at the word of God."

Silence filled the room again as James ran his hand through his hair. He was exhausted and frustrated, but for the first time since the Carlyle murder, it seemed questions might finally begin to get answered. He slowly made his way back to the table, taking the seat next to Shelton.

"I don't believe in God," said James.

"You will by time you leave here today."

"You make it sounds like Inspector James is about to meet the devil times two," said Shelton.

Stasya smirked at Shelton. "Make no mistake Captain Shelton, Inspector James, the evil that sits inside those two rooms is a very old evil."

"What do you mean old evil?" inquired Shelton.

"I mean, it goes all the way back to the book of Genesis."

James shook his head, "You can't expect me to believe any of this angel and demons bullshit. It's not real. The fact of the matter is some people do very bad things. Evil is a label we slap on it. We invent God and the Devil so that somehow it all makes sense and that life isn't that random."

"Why do you deny the facts witnessed by your eyes? You don't remember being dragged through hell? You don't remember the faceless man forging the nails that would crucify our Lord? Or the black winged angel who presented the Roman soldier with the Spear of Destiny?" said Stasya as her voice grew louder, causing her to stand up. James stood in response to her obvious rise in escalating frustration with him. He backed away as she approached him and grabbed him by the arm.

"What are you doing?" he shouted.

"You are going to lie to me and tell me you do not remember room 1219 full of dead film stars watching that man rape the love of your youth Julie Anne Jackson?" screamed Stasya as she pushed James closer and closer to the glass of interview station seven. "And you don't remember Kritzler? The endless line of Jewish girls? Edmund Frayker? Nazi's? The man in White? Kirkland being led away into the darkness by the girl?" she screamed as she spun James like a top and slammed his face into the two-way glass and pointed at Tarista. "OR HER RAPING YOU?"

Stasya was now in a fit of uncontrolled anger. Tarista and Devonia began to both scream, shout and laugh at James as they violently jerked at their restraints. Shelton stepped in and pushed Stasya away from James. "ENOUGH!"

Stasya backed away and composed herself as Shelton checked on James. "You okay, Tommy?" James nodded he was. "Okay, let's everyone chill out," demanded Shelton. Stasya quickly nodded in agreement.

"Forgive me, Inspector James. I don't know how I lost control over myself," apologized Stasya.

"It's fine. I'm okay. I didn't mean to offend you Commander. I don't have any understanding of what's been happening to me. But you are right I do remember. I've been lying to myself and trying to pretend it's been a dream or my imagination."

"Then everything she just said is true, Tom?" asked Shelton. James nodded. "It's true Cap, all of it. What I don't understand Commander Gusarov, is how did you know what happened to me?"

"Because I was there Inspector James. I saw it with my very own eyes."

"When?"

"The day I gave birth to them," she said pointing at the Baranova sisters.

Shelton stared with mouth open. "You saw this when?"

"Summer 1987."




Chapter Twenty-Seven

Summer 1987


"You saw all of this when you were 13 years old, commander?" asked Shelton. Stasya nodded in agreement. "Believe me when I tell you I was just as confused as you are now. At first I thought the visions were brought on by the drugs the doctors had been giving me.

"You see, when I first awoke from my coma, the KGB interviewed me relentlessly about what had happened to me. I tried to give them details of the assault, but I couldn't. I was in shock. My shock was not only from the fact I had been raped and survived when no one else had, but I was pregnant and about to deliver within the month."

"So when you came out of the coma, they thought it might be the only chance to find out who the killer was, right?"

"Exactly. Of course, at the time I did not understand all they were doing to me. I was still practically a child and I was scared. When they interviewed me I would tell them things that even I did not remember or understand. But whatever I was saying seemed important to them."

James felt chills as he listened to her. "Do you remember anything while you were in the coma?" he asked.

 "I remember the coma felt like I was simply just sleeping for a along time. But I also remember dreaming. I dreamt of many girls like myself being lured into the woods and never coming home. I dreamt of concentration camps and a grand hotel where a monster lurked and crawled between the walls."

"You saw all of that while in the coma?" questioned Shelton.

"Yes, but when I gave birth everything changed. I began to see murder."

"You mean you saw the details of Chikatilo's earlier killings?" asked James.

"Not exactly. I mean, yes I did begin to sense Chikatilo. The more he killed, the more in tune I became to him. In fact the KGB began to know exactly when he had committed a new killing because I would become blind until the victim was completely dead."

James rubbed his arms as a chill seemed to overpower the entire room. Stasya could see what she said was affecting  James.

"I understand it does not make sense to you yet. At the time it did not make sense to me. I had been subjected to so many tests I was not sure if it was real thoughts or imagined thoughts from all the drugs. The doctors were certain I had severe brain damage from the blow of the hammer. Except now I saw things I had never studied. I saw things that would make a normal person become insane. It was as if giving birth triggered something paranormal inside my mind."

"Why did you lose your eyesight when Chikatilo killed?" asked James.

"Chikatilo used to stab out the eyes of his victims," she said.

"Was it just a result of overkill frenzy?"

"No, he feared that the last image a person sees at the time of their death is forever recorded in their eyes."

"So by stabbing out the eyes he believed it would keep him from being caught," stated Shelton.

"Precisely. Belief in the human eye taking a final snapshot is an old wives tale. Chikatilo probably learned that Scotland Yard took photographs of Mary Kelly's eyes just in case the myth was true, and it made him paranoid." added Stasya.

 "So, you said the more Chikatilo killed the more you could sense him," stated James.

"Yes, even though I would become blind during the murder itself, once he left the victim I was able to see the crime scene with complete clarity. This was of course after my daughters were born. When the KGB were able to go directly to the crime scene within hours of the murders they knew somehow clairvoyantly, I was connected to him. We could never figure out if it was because I survived the rape or gave birth to his children."

"So because of your gift, the KGB recruited you to hunt down Chikatilo?"

"I would call it a curse, Inspector, but yes you are correct. I was 14 years old by then. I spent the next three years of my life being exposed to every type of paranormal testing the KGB could imagine. After the fall of the Soviet Union your government took charge over me."

"So you're not really a translator for the FBI are you?" asked Shelton.

"No."

"Then what have you been doing for our government since you were 17 years old?" asked James.

Stasya looked at James with surprise that it took him this long to ask this question which, to her, was obvious.

"Hunting serial killers."




Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hunting Serial Killers


"When was the last time you saw your daughters, Commander?" asked Shelton.

"They were taken away from me when they were 3 years old."

"Did they also manifest paranormal behavior?" asked James.

"Yes, but that is not why they took them from me. It was because they had committed their first murder together."

"What happened?" asked James.

Stasya sat silently for a moment. She attempted to speak but no words came. She made a motion to James and Shelton that she needed a moment to compose herself. They understood and waited patiently. After several minutes of silent meditation Stasya, found her voice again.

"It was November 6, 1990, I was living with the girls at a government detention center. Living in comfort mind you, I was not a prisoner. The KGB is notorious for being as ruthless as the Gestapo, however I was treated very well and now I was also a member of the KGB with limited clearance. I was called to a meeting with the task force who had been looking for Chikatilo for many years now. During the meeting, I was suddenly overcome by an oppressive darkness. I was in the woods alone. I see a young girl enter the woods where I am also. She is close to me in body and age maybe a little older. For the first time since my own attack I was able to clearly see everything that was happening. I knew Chikatilo was coming and I had to warn her. I called to the girl. 'What are you doing here? You must go.' The girl looked at me defiantly and told me to mind my own business. I felt desperate. I knew any moment Chikatilo would arrive and find her."

James could see the perspiration forming on Stasya's forehead. She began to tremble as she recounted the story to him and Shelton.

"Why weren't you blind this time like all the other times?" he asked.

Stasya waved her hand at James to be silent. "Please Inspector James, do not speak or I shall never be able to tell this again," she pleaded.

James quickly nodded that he understood, as he and Shelton shared a worried look.

Stasya returned her focus to her story. "I rushed up to her and begged her to go. I told the girl it was not safe to be here, but she only cursed at me and pushed me away. My heart pounded with fear. I did not want this girl to suffer the agony I had faced. I kept watching the edge of the woods, when there in the distance I could see a man coming. I chased after the girl and grabbed her hand. 'He's coming, you must hide, hurry!' I cried.

"Angrily the girl jerked away from me and slapped me across the face. I tried to calm her, but she began to pull my hair and scratch at me. The two of us fell to the ground and began to roll back and forth on each other. My own fear was becoming more than I could bear for I knew any moment, Chikatilo would find the two of us. I could not face him again. I had nightmare after nightmare over the years of him finding me and finish killing me. I struggled with the girl on the ground trying to get her to see the monster was nearly upon us. She only continued to fight with me. My fear began to turn into anger and now I began to fight back. Our legs twisted as we writhed together.

"We fought wildly, yanking hair, biting each other, hitting anywhere we could hit one another. I rolled on top of the girl and pulled the hammer from my coat. Pinning her down with my knees I began to pound the claw of the hammer into her face and chest. Over and over I hit her. When she stopped moving I leaned down and savagely bit her face.

My anger began to subside and my breathing began to slow. I looked down and saw the lifeless body of the girl under me. I stood and gathered my things and made my way to the clearing at the edge of the woods. In the distance was a well. There was blood on my hands and face and I needed to clean them. I washed quickly in the well water and a policeman approached me and asked me for my papers. I nervously gave him my identification papers. He turned to me and said, 'Citizen Chikatilo, what were you doing in the woods?'

I stared at him with shock and was only able to mutter the words, 'I'm the devil and I'm here on the devil's business.' "




Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Devil's Business


James and Shelton watched Stasya sob uncontrollably. Shelton moved from one side of the table to other and sat down next to her. She placed her motherly arms around the woman and embraced her, letting her shed the bitter tears that had been held back for so long. Both Shelton and James understood why she felt she could not have told the story again if she stopped.

After several moments, Stasya pulled herself together, wiping her tears from her face. "Forgive me," she apologized.

"It's okay, we understand," reassured James as he spoke softly to her.

"Thank you, both of you. This is the only other time I had ever spoken of this. The last time was with the KGB."

"So this time instead of being in place of his victim, you were him," enquired James.

"Yes that is correct. We had a name, but I didn't know the location. The KGB followed up on Chikatilo and learned he had been arrested once before as a suspect and let go for lack of evidence.

"On November 13, a hunter found the mutilated body of 22-year-old, Sveta Korostik near Donleskhoz Station. The following day the police began watching Chikatilo. Over the next six days they observed him at train stations attempting to talk to young children or teenaged girls. Then on November 20, he was arrested for suspicious behavior and was interrogated for the next nine days without result.

"On November 30, 1990, I was called to meet with my superiors and Dr. Aleksandr Bukhanovsky. Dr. Bukhanovsky was a psychiatrist who, back in 1985, had written a profile of the killer. It was arranged that the doctor would read the profile to Chikatilo to see if there would be any type of reaction. He showed none until I was brought into the room. There, after many nightmares and having given birth to his twin daughters, did I face the devil eye to eye. Instantly, he began to scream and beg I be taken away. Without hesitation he confessed and I was returned home.

"When the KGB brought me back to the detention center, we found Tarista and Devonia in courtyard where the children were allowed to play with the pets. My daughters were happily singing and playing surrounded by dead animals. The two of them had either strangled, stabbed, or bludgeoned every single animal to death. It was only then did I realize this nightmare was far from over."

The three of them looked back towards the interrogation rooms. From the conference table they could see Tarista and Devonia talking to each other. The sight gave Shelton the chills.

"What happened to them after that?" asked James.

"The KGB took them away. The following year the Soviet Union collapsed and your government began immediate assistance. The KGB shared with the FBI how I had helped them solve the Rostov Case and a gesture in diplomatic good will I was given the opportunity to leave the Soviet Union and join the FBI."

"You didn't care about being separated from the girls?" James asked.

"No. Whatever had been passed along to me from Chikatilo had been magnified in them. They were monsters like their father. I was glad to be free of them."

"They were children, Commander. How can you call them monsters?" asked Shelton.

Stasya sighed heavily and answered in a tone that was matter of fact. "You want proof?"

Both James and Shelton nodded together as Stasya slid the "Eyes Only" file across the table. James took it and opened it.

"What am I looking for?"

"The fingerprint card," she said pointing. James flipped through the file until he came to identical official FBI fingerprinting cards.

"Okay, now what?"

"Do you see the date?" she asked.

James looked and saw the date was February 14, 1994. "Valentine's Day."

"Do you not see that they were fingerprinted at the age of seven?" asked Stasya.

"That's not uncommon, Commander. Quite often we fingerprint children who come into custody from Child Protective Services. In fact, we even print them when they are born."

"Valentine's Day is the day Chikatilo was executed Inspector. That very same day I learned the two of them tortured and murdered their nanny."

"Okay, I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell me," said James.

Frustrated, Stasya grabbed the file and retrieved a stack of cards that were secured by a thick elastic rubber band. Quickly she pulled it free and let the cards spill across the table in front of Shelton and James.

"Why so many?" asked Shelton.

"Jesus, are you telling me this is the number of times they have killed or been arrested?" asked James.

"Both, but that's not my point. I want you to take this first card and run it through the system," said Stasya.

James, Shelton and Stasya rose from the table and crossed the hall to a command center. The room was windowless and filled with identification equipment. Stasya pointed James to the card processor. He slid the card that was marked with the names Tarista and Devonia Baranova. Within seconds the result was printed out.

James picked it up and gave a puzzled look.

"Who the hell are Albert and Alfred Stratton?" asked James.

"They were twin brothers who were executed for murder."

"When?"

"1905. It was the first time fingerprints were used as evidence to convict someone for murder," said Stasya as she watched Shelton and James stare at the card with complete confusion. "Are you telling me when you run their fingerprints you get the prints of the Stratton Brothers?" asked James.

Stasya didn't answer, she only handed him another card. Reluctantly, James took and processed it. Within seconds the report printed. James read the name aloud, "Ronny and Reggie Kray?"

"Murderers from London's East End in the late sixties." James ran another card. Shelton read the printout, "Dara and Derek Hume."

"Twin brother and sister from New Zealand who murdered their entire family and buried their dead bodies in the garden path of their country home in late 1950's."

James didn't want to see anymore. "This is insane Commander. You really expect me to believe these two don't possess their own fingerprints. That the fingerprints they do have belong to twins who have been dead. Some over a 100 years?"

"If you don't believe me, print them yourself and find out. But I warn you, they never come out the same twice. After the incident with the nanny, the Soviets were frightened and locked them away in Vladimir Central Prison. They remained there until their escape in 2000 when they seduced a guard and dismembered him into nine pieces."

James realized Stasya was right. It was pointless. After all that she had told him, why would she lie now? Stasya sensed that James believed her.

"Trust me Inspector, I know what I'm talking about. I have been hunting them nearly 13 years. You understand now why I told you that you must be prepared before you speak to them?" asked Stasya. James agreed. "So then are you ready to translate for me?" he asked. Stasya shook her head and backed up.

"I can't go inside Inspector. My presence will only serve to complicate matters. You said you had a translator?"

James nodded.

"Then it would be better for all concerned if you called on this person."

James turned to Shelton. "Cap, call Agent Summers, tell her I'm going to need her help."

 Shelton made her way to a phone and placed the call. "Summers? It's Shelton. Inspector James needs you to interpret the interview." From the expression on her face, James could tell there was no reluctance on Summers part. Shelton hung up the phone. "She'll be here in two minutes. You sure you want to go in there after everything Commander Gusarov just told us?"

"I have to Cap. If I don't then Kirkland's death is meaningless," said James as his thoughts went back to the voicemail on his cell phone—the voice that sounded like Julie telling him Kirkland wasn't dead. He hoped it was true. And what of the voice? Could it have been Julie? If so, then the message would have been delivered before she was murdered. His thoughts were suddenly broken by Summer's voice.

"You ready, Tom?" she asked as entered the room. James looked up at her and was actually glad to see her. After everything they had been through, he felt he could trust Summers with his life.

"I'm ready," he said as he noticed Summers looking at Stasya.

"Agent Summers, this is Commander Stasya Gusarov former KGB.

"How we gonna play this Tommy?"

James turned to Shelton and looked past her shoulder at the Baranova Sisters. As he expected they were watching him intently. He wondered if they could hear him. "Agent Summers and I will start with Devonia."

Stasya interjected. "Only ask them questions that pertain to your investigation. Do not let either of them break your focus, it's too dangerous."

"Cap, you keep a watch on Tarista and take notes to her demeanor while we speak with Devonia. If you catch anything that Summers or I need to be made aware of you have my permission to terminate the interview. Commander, you're going to be my extra set of ears. I need you to listen for things Agent Summers may miss."

Stasya and Shelton agreed. James looked at Summers and she nodded she was ready. As they began to make their way to the room, Stasya called out, stopping them.

"Wait, give me your hands," she said reaching for James and Summers hands. "Yours too," she said to Shelton. James reluctantly took Stasya's hand. "What are we doing?"

"We're going to pray."




Chapter Thirty

Pray


The four of them linked hands, forming a circle. Stasya gripped James and Summers' hands tightly as Shelton completed the circle.

"Close your eyes everyone and clear your mind of all thoughts. God is listening," she said as she began to prepare her thoughts for prayer. Without warning a blinding flash filled her mind. Stasya found herself standing in the interrogation room only she wasn't with Devonia or Tarista, she was with Clem. The room smelt of sulfur and burnt skin. Clem looked at Stasya and spoke with no effort.

"He's coming Stasya, he wants her. I tried to warn her," he said as he raised his melted hand up to her face. Stasya could see imprinted into his palm the words, Because your family.

Stasya screamed and broke the prayer chain. Her eyes were wild as she stared at Summers. Her breathing was panicked and labored.

"What's wrong? What happened?" asked Summers. Stasya only backed away from the three of them. Moments later, Paige Collins entered the room followed by Jessalee.

Paige could immediately sense something was very wrong with Stasya. "What's going on?"

Angrily, Stasya confronted the director. "Why did you not tell her?" she said pointing at Summers.

Paige calmly scanned the reaction of the others before she replied to Stasya. "It wasn't the right time," she remarked coldly.

Stasya grabbed Paige by the collar of her blouse and slammed her into the wall. Nose to nose the two women glared at one another.

"Stop it! The director and I have news!" shouted Jessalee. Paige held her eye locked to Stasya's.

"So maybe you could back off," Paige ordered Stasya.

"Not until you tell that girl the truth!" shouted Stasya as she tightened her grip on Paige's shirt.

  "Tell me what?" asked Summers, as she moved closer to Stasya.

Stasya glared at Paige with bitterness in her eyes. "She was going to let you go into that room with those fiends. She knows if they get you alone it will take them no time to get inside your head. Believe me you don't want that. Five minutes alone with Tarista and Devonia Baranova are long enough for them to unhinge your mind."

"They can't touch her or you Stasya, I guarantee it!" shouted Paige. It was the first time James had seen the director not in control of her emotions.

Stasya angrily barked back, "You have had me hunting them for 13 years. I have seen the trail of blood they leave wherever they go. Don't tell me they can't get to us! Their seductions have no boundaries. No chains or walls can protect us from them, so how dare you lie..."

"They're in a Faraday Cage!" screamed Paige. Jessalee and Summers looked confused as the standoff continued.

"What the fuck is a Faraday Cage?" asked Shelton.

Stasya instantly fell silent, she and Paige locked eyes. "It's a stronghold designed to contain extreme levels of telekinetic or psychic power," said Stasya, never taking her eyes away from the director.

Paige held her gaze. "You're not the only one who knows what they're capable of," said the director as she pulled the hem of her blouse up and exposed her stomach. There were several odd shaped symbols and marks that were cut and seared into her skin. Paige gave everyone a clear view of the grotesque marks.

"What the hell?" asked Summers.

"Devonia did this to me 13 years ago," said Paige. Stasya looked closely. "Do those marks spell something?" she asked.

"Yes, it's the witches alphabet, it spells Judas," said Paige with no emotion.

"Why Judas?" asked Shelton.

"Because I had just had an ab ... I had a miscarriage and somehow Devonia knew it."

Summers and Shelton gasped at what Paige had just said. James tried to be sympathetic to the conversation. "Why don't we all sit down a moment," he said as he pulled a chair for the director. Everyone else took a place at the conference table. James sat next to Paige. "How did it happen?"

"13 years ago in Hollywood it was my misfortune to investigate the death of Charles Cargill Mondurge."

"Wait I remember that case. Wasn't he the studio executive who committed suicide? His daughters claimed he said that demons or something like that were trying to kill him?" stated Shelton.

"They weren't his daughters and it wasn't suicide, it was murder, I just couldn't prove it," she said.

"What happened?" asked James.

"Mondurge inherited Weirlech Film Studios from his mother the French silent film actress, Lisalette Mondurge. The studio had amassed such a vast fortune during the twenties, she built herself this enormous 275 room gothic fortress that overlooked Hollywood. She hid away from the public for decades and everyone basically forgot about her until 1966, when she burned the studio to the ground. She claimed the devil lived there. Needless to say she was committed and her son Charles took over the estate. Three years later the Manson Family murdered five people on the very site where the studio once was."

"Jesus, is that really true?" asked Jessalee.

 "You haven't heard anything yet. Charles Mondurge had used the fortune his mother gained from the studio and by the late '90s he had multiplied the amount ten times what it was in the '20s. He was easily one of the most powerful of people in the world of show business. You knew he had a hand in everything, but never saw him. Someone who always seemed to be working in the shadows yet never fails."

"Yeah, I remember this guy now, he had a real thing for 'bad girls' anytime you ever did see him, it was with women like Evelyn Nesbit, Louise Brooks, Nita Naldi. In fact, he used to be host to some of Jack Nicholson's famous parties. Nicholson once said of Mondurge, 'He's the only guy I know who has a better deal with the devil than I do,' " said James.

"Like Hugh Hefner, he has an army of young girls willing to give into any of his wildest desires. He lives the typical Hollywood life that consists of a never-ending supply of money, sex and power. In late 2000, he gets involved with two mysterious girls and he tells the world he's going to make them more famous than Jesus. Thirty-one days later on Halloween night he's found hanging naked in his shower. A hangman's noose, knotted 13 times around his neck, he's blindfolded and his hands are handcuffed behind his back. He has the words Babylon's Whore written on his ass in red lipstick. The police rule it a suicide," she said.

"Suicide? You've got to be kidding? If that's a suicide then I'm Mother-Fucking-Theresa," joked Jessalee.

"Exactly, although you gotta admit that is similar to Kritzler's death. I mean with the exception of barbed wire for handcuffs" Shelton joined in.

"And the lipstick covered asshole," smirked Jessalee. Everyone but Paige laughed. It was the first time there had been any levity in the room all day.

Sorry director, I didn't mean to interrupt, please continue," said Jessalee.

 "The Hollywood police closed the file, but the LA bureau weren't satisfied especially since there wasn't any note and the only other people in the house with him at the time of the event were still living there. So I was ordered by my director to do a follow-up interview.

I drove alone up into the oldest part of the Hollywood Hills to where this massive stone manor sits looming over the city. I was met at the gate by this stunningly beautiful girl who, as, it turned out I later learned was Tarista. She led me up a marble staircase outside the mansion to a veranda. That's where I met Devonia. She spoke with voice of an angel and invited me inside. She escorted me through a series of oaken hallways that were covered in frescos and paintings from another time.

I followed her into a large hall where a massive fireplace lay against the wall in the center of the room. Above the fireplace was the painting of the Vatican, in flames. I couldn't stop staring at it. Devonia asked me, 'You like what you see?' but I couldn't answer. She walked up behind me and put one hand on my shoulder and took my other hand in hers as she pointed to the center of the painting. 'There, do you see it?' I didn't know what she was talking about and said 'no' as if I were lost in a trance. She interlaced her fingers with mine and pointed them together. 'Right there, do you see it now?' To my horror I saw what she was pointing at."

The group sat breathless listening to Paige tell the story.

"What was it?" asked Stasya.

Paige remained silent a moment. She looked up at everyone and remembered the moment as if it were yesterday. "I felt her velvet cheek pressing next to mine as she spoke softly. 'It's your baby. The one you killed, don't you see it there in the fire burning along with you?' she said as she kissed my cheek and backed away from me with her arms outstretched. I walked to the hearth of the fireplace and there she had laid out for me five branding irons."

Stasya felt the tears stinging her face as she listened. "I couldn't stop myself. I reached without hesitation and took each one and burned it into my skin until  I had atoned for my sin of abortion."

No one spoke. No words seemed to be right in view of what everyone had just learned.

"The next time anyone saw me, I was found half naked walking along the shore of the Santa Monica beach. It took me a year to recover. The bureau charged them with attempted murder of a federal officer, but by then the Baranova Sisters were long gone. Charles Mondurge had left them his entire fortune. They were rich beyond measure. The only way we were ever going to capture them was if they let us and that is why they are in a Faraday Cage," she said somberly.




Chapter Thirty-One

The Faraday Cage


The six of them all stared at different parts of the room. No one seemed to be able to look the others in the eyes, but the feeling in the room had changed from one of anxiety and mistrust to understanding and mutual dedication. They were all here for a common purpose the only way they were going to accomplish it was to trust each other and work together.

"Let's go to work," said James. The request seemed to be exactly the words everyone needed to hear. Taking the initiative, Jessalee, opened a file and pulled several photocopied reports and passed them around the table.

"What you're looking at everyone is the blood analysis taken from Tarista and Devonia while they were unconscious. Judging from their appearance when we booked them, we weren't taking any chances. Point one. There are four different blood specimens on them and none of it belongs to them."

"You said earlier you knew one of the specimens belonged to your sister," stated James.

"That's right," replied Jessalee.

"How did you know that? All the evidence from her crime scene was destroyed in the fire."

"I understand, but she is my sister. I swabbed myself and ran a DNA test. It matches me. It's Valerie. The other three belong to, Amanda Carlyle, Hermann Kritzler, and Julie Jackson."

Hearing Julie's name suddenly made all of it real for James. She really was dead. Now he would never have a last chance to tell her that he never stopped loving her. James swallowed and tried to put thoughts of Julie out of his mind for the moment. "But no evidence of Kirkland's blood?"

"None," said Jessalee as Shelton and Summers breathed a sigh of relief.

"Since we are laying all of our cards here on the table. I have to tell you guys, I don't know what's true and what I might have imagined for the last two days. But when Agent Summers and I went to Kirkland's house, we found someone had ransacked it, obviously looking for something. We found writing on the wall in blood in one room and an occult painting in his living room. It also had writing on it."

Stasya looked up from her report. "What was the painting Inspector?"

"The Witches Sabbath by Goya," said Summers. "On the back of it there was writing in Russian, that read, 'The place where Angels will not tread' and the writing in the bedroom was also in Russian it said 'Julie Jackson burns in hell,' so I think we can safely assume that it was Tarista and Devonia who trashed Kirkland's house and murdered Julie," said Summers.

"Any idea what they could have been looking for Stasya?" asked Paige.

Stasya considered all that she had heard and shook her head. None of it seemed to make any sense.

"Anything else, Tom?" asked Shelton.

"Yes, I got a missed call on my cell phone. It came from Kirkland's house phone. It was a girl who left a message."

"What did she say?"

"She said, 'Kirkland isn't dead' and then hung up."

"Was it one of them?" asked Paige, referring to Tarista and Devonia.

James thought for a moment and said no. "I don't think so. To be honest, I thought it was Julie."

"Why would you think that?" asked Stasya.

"Because it sounded identical to her."

"Do you still have this recording?" asked Stasya.

James nodded as he clutched his cell phone tightly in his pocket, just to reassure himself he still had it.

"May I listen to it?" asked Stasya looking directly into James' eyes. "What do you fear Inspector? That it was her last phone call before she was brutally murdered?"

"That's a bit excessive don't you think?" Summers said, showing her irritation towards Stasya's lack of consideration for James' feelings.

"Forgive me if I am too blunt, Agent Summers, but no one can help the Inspector understand what truly happened to Julie except for me. Only I know the true voice of Tarista or Devonia."

Paige looked up directly at Stasya. "That's not true. I will never forget the sound of their voices, ever."

Shelton reached over and patted James on the shoulder. "Come on Tommy, we gotta know for sure. If those two are the ones who killed Julie, then at least we have them in custody already. You won't have to wonder anymore."

James returned her affection with his own pat on her shoulder and retrieved the phone from his pocket.

Stasya stood up and crossed to him. "Stand up Inspector and give me your hands a moment." James did as she requested and rose from his chair.

Slowly he placed his hands inside Stasya's hands. She smiled at him and told him it would be okay. She closed her eyes and nodded several times. The others watched her with James quietly from their seats.

"Very good, now please let me hear the message," she said as James handed her the phone.

His hands shook, as he suddenly felt nervous. "You have to press one and it will automatically go to my voicemail."

"It's okay Inspector James, I have a cell phone myself," she said smiling as she pressed the number 1 and listened to the dial. Pressing the phone to her ear, Stasya could hear the sound of the voice on the other end. Her eyes squinted as she replayed the message again. She then became very quiet as she pressed the stop button and handed James back the phone.

"The girl on the phone, her name is Zoë. She's your daughter."

END OF BOOK ONE




Chapter Thirty-Two

Preview From Book II

All Of Them Witches


Summers pressed her cell phone tightly against her ear trying to hear over the gunfire that came from the device's speaker. She crouched in a corner of the mausoleum hiding as James had instructed her to do.

"They're coming Summers! You've got to kill her before she kills you!" pleaded the voice on the other end of the phone. "I was wrong! You can't trust any of them...Oh my god...No! NO!" the voice screamed and then was abruptly silenced. Summers gripped the phone and listened as closely as she could. For a moment she thought the call had been dropped, but then she began to hear crackling and whispers on the other end until a voice returned to the phone. Summers began to panic as she heard the familiar snicker of laughter followed by the loud shrieking scream that sounded like a wild animal.

"I'm gunna git yew!"

END OF PREVIEW




About The Author


Thomas Amo is the author of the 1920's adventure romance, "Silence" and the stage-play of the crazy British farce, "Bob's Your Auntie!" This former full-time theatrical producer and playwright has written over 20 comedies and farces for the live theatre. Outside acting, directing and producing, his first love has always been writing.

An Apple For Zoë ~Book One ~ The Forsaken, marks his debut into horror fiction.

"I've always had a fascination on the subjects of Old Hollywood and True Crime. The best part of writing about these subjects is the interesting places you get to see when doing the research. Spending three hours in The Hollywood Forever Cemetery was an amazing experience!"

"The other thing I absolutely love about being a writer is...you can do this job, from anywhere in the world!"

Thomas Amo lives in California, with his wife, Ashton.