Authors: Alex Mueck
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
M
YTH MAN ANGRILY TERMINATED the call with his contact.
Damn, Dominick Presto.
Fear he had not felt since a child swelled along with his bladder. He ran to the toilet. Relieved, only in the gastronomical sense, he returned from the restroom and tried to plan for the information his contact had relayed.
Presto put together a list of names that he deemed people of interest. “Your name’s on the list,” the contact stuttered.
This meant the jig was up, after only three religious murders. There were so many more he wanted to get to.
Shame
, Myth Man thought. That meant his contact’s time was almost over too. He’d been useful but, like the dummy he’d drugged back in the safe house, instrumentally expendable.
Myth Man, however, was not as saddened as expected that the spree was coming to a close. Inside news involving some mysterious Iraqi crate coming to New York under the auspices of the Lubavitchers piqued his interest.
He was pleased with his new plan. If he could pull it off, he’d be a legend. Son of Sam would be his junior forever.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“T
HIS IS SOME PIZZA,” Ridgewood mumbled as she swallowed a bite and dabbed her lips with a napkin. She cleared her throat and added. “The only pizza I knew as a youth was the frozen kind. I should add that the nearest supermarket was an hour drive. The sushi, the steakhouses, the pizza, the variety is so good in New York.”
Presto had already gorged a slice of meatball and patted his girth like the prior evening. “As you can see, I wholeheartedly agree.”
She laughed this time. “If we don’t catch this guy soon, and I stay in New York much longer, I’ll need a new wardrobe.” Then she added. “What do you make of the people we met thus far? Not much?”
Presto agreed. “No, but each suspect crossed off narrows the list. I figure the city has a population of about 8 million. Let’s just say half of those are men, and another half are between the ages of thirty to sixty; that’s 2 million people. We just whacked three off that number.”
“I like your optimism,” Ridgewood said and took another bite.
Their first stop had been at an affluent Tudor home in Jamaica Estates. The home was owned by Jacob Barnaby, a multimillionaire in his late thirties who never worked a day in his life. His parents both came from wealth, and his father invested and increased the family fortune through bribes to politicians, zoning board representatives, and various contractors, which made him one of the top real estate barons in New York City. Later, he expanded his reach to the Hamptons.
His parents met an untimely death on the night of the Fourth of July when their yacht blew up in the Long Island Sound. Initially, it was assumed that the Barnabys’ boat must have caught fire due to fireworks that they assuredly had aboard.
The yacht was raised. Investigators determined a large explosive, not sparklers and bottle rockets, had sunk the boat. While Denton Barnaby had his enemies, the one who most prospered was his son, Jacob, who inherited in total assets and life insurance $80 million dollars. Jacob had an alibi, and nothing to incriminate him surfaced.
Jacob Barnaby had the same ruthless traits of his father but a different philosophy. The son saw his father as driven by greed, a delusional empire maker. Jacob thought differently and rebelled not against the spirit of capitalism but rather the excesses. A corporate hegemony controlled the world, and the masses were distracted with meaningless issues, entertainment, and religion. While the masses bowed to a likely fictional god, money and power was the religion of the elite.
Jacob aired his views in cable advertisements and a small manifesto he self-published. His vision resonated like a new religion. His followers, called Jacobites, bussed and flew to gatherings of world leaders and formed choreographed protests that made them sound reasonable and appealing rather than the typical brand of anticorporate rabble-rousers.
While Presto was doubtful that Jacob Barnaby was the serial killer (his face was too well known), it was possible he was giving the orders or had an overzealous member taking matters into their own hands. The group fit his profile.
They rang his door’s buzzer at 10:00 am. Jacob answered the door naked except for tight, black briefs and a bottle of Dom Perignon. His full, dark, shoulder-length hair and bushy mustache reminded Presto of The Beatles, circa
Sergeant Pepper’s
. Presto’s fine nose also detected stale traces of marijuana and fresher sex. Neither scent was based from his personal experience.
Ridgewood and Presto flashed their respective badges and asked for a moment of his time. He seemed too pleased to see them. Barnaby turned and whistled. “Get decent. The Law’s here,” he warned. “Follow me.”
The next thing Presto noticed about Barnaby was the tattoo that canvassed his pale back. Depicted, with some liberty, was the White House. A large for sale sign was planted in front of what should have been the rose garden but instead was a vacant strip mall. The trees were replaced with smokestacks and oil rigs. The White House was, in fact, no longer white. Instead, the portico, columns, and walls were splashed with identifiable corporate advertising logos.
They arrived in a long rectangular room that was once probably a living room but now looked like a hippie lecture hall. A group of recliners, couches, and beanbag chairs faced a lectern. The other side of the room had a stocked bar, and a light rig hung from the ceiling over a checkered dance floor. Two young women, both blonde and nearly identical, were sprawled on the couch.
Presto and Ridgewood were introduced to Amber and Desire, whose definition of decent was the cover of red velvet sheets. Ridgewood asked for privacy, but Barnaby refused. If they wanted his cooperation without an attorney (excluding himself) present, the girls would stay.
After a few minutes, it was apparent that what Barnaby really wanted was an audience. He might as well have stood at the lectern. No, he knew nothing about the murders. No member of his tribe would do such a thing; the Jacobites’ doctrine preaches nonviolence. Then he went on a tear.
He praised Ridgewood and Presto for the commitment to justice and honest work. They were misguided in task, he explained. While finding a ruthless killer is noble and necessary, the real killers and crooks are left to pilfer, exploit, and kill with all their tactical means: advertising, slave labor, tax write-offs, bribes, lobbyist, offshore havens, and price gouging.
When he briefly turned his back, Ridgewood stepped on Presto’s foot as a cue to leave, but escape was not easy. He never paused or offered an opportunity to interject. At one point, he walked directly in front of the seated Ridgewood. She consciously kept her eyes on his face, even when he slowly gyrated his hips and ran his hand, slowly, around his package.
Barnaby’s antic’s excited his two companions who went from snuggling to saliva swapping. Both of their tongues were pierced, which elicited an odd clinking sound. Ridgewood’s foot found Presto’s toes, this time with more inertia. He felt the import of her innuendo and Italian leather flats.
Presto pulled Ridgewood to her feet and announced they were through. Barnaby protested, but they escaped.
Next on the loony list was a Flushing townhouse owned by Keith Highland; at least that was his stated name on his birth certificate. Now he only answered to the name Andromeda. His story was that he’d not been abducted but rather chosen by an advanced race of extraterrestrials to deliver a critical message.
Half human, half insects warned him that the world would face an apocalyptic fate by 2015 unless man changed. We’re under an intergalactic microscope, he warned. If the human race does not get its act together, there would be a cleansing, and a DNA modified breed of humans would start over, back in the Stone Age.
One cure Andromeda prescribed was abolishing all religious faiths, which were all fostered to confuse and separate us in the vein of the Tower of Babel. He advocated that because he had the answers, the world could unify behind his revelations.
Presto was sure he’d heard Andromeda’s reasoning somewhere before.
Presto almost believed Andromeda’s extraterrestrial claims when the front door opened. Standing there was a short, frail man, who after closer inspection did not posses any hair. His head was bald, and his eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. He also wore a snug, metallic-colored body suit.
As soon as Andromeda saw Ridgewood, he glowed like a firefly. “A fellow chosen one,” he announced as he ushered them inside his residence.
“You must be mistaken,” Ridgewood assured.
“Hardly,” he reassured. “That divot in your upper cheek is a scoop mark.”
As far as the religious murders, Andromeda had nothing to hide. He’d voluntarily take a lie detector test and go under hypnosis if Agent Ridgewood would do the same for her abduction experiences.
When they left, Ridgewood remarked, “Men are from Mars; women from Venus. Andromeda’s so far out there, he’s not in our solar system.”
The last stop on their misguided tour was the Redemption Tabernacle of Corona. They were there to see Reverend Maximilian Trotter. Reverend Trotter was a controversial figure in New York.
First, while the tabernacle may have been a house of worship and Trotter a self-proclaimed reverend, he was best known for his dire fundamentalist preaching. Trotter also had a record. He served time for interstate gun trafficking.
His basic tenet was that America was at a crossroads, facing a battle for the soul of the nation. America could embrace the Lord and return her heart to Christ as our nation was intended, or we could side with the devil. The ancient trickster was winning and grinning. The scales tipped in his favor and were close to the breaking point. Mankind has ignored God’s warnings, thus famine, war, disease, and
un
natural disasters abounded.
Trotter’s utopian vision of America was similar to a coast-to-coast version of the Quakers. There would be no mindless forms of lewd and violent entertainment. Bars, brothels, and our thirst for materialism would be no more. Any sect of Christianity not subscribing to this mission was complicit and committed treason against the almighty. First, America needed to defeat her enemies within and then abroad.
Time with Trotter was short. Defensive and abrasive, he did not take questions well, especially when Ridgewood asked how much income he garnered from his newsletters, books, and DVDs that he hawked on his Web site and local cable stations. He was an agent of God. How dare they? His mission required money, and God wanted him to complete his task.
The reverend called her a wicked Jezebel, and they were shown the door.
Presto was aghast as he watched Ridgewood absorb liquid off her pizza with a napkin. She’d wasted all the tasty juices.
“You know,” she said, “all this grease makes me think of the oily characters we met today. I wonder if Donavan and Danko had any luck.”
They had divided the list by city county, and Danko and Donavan were in the Bronx. The best guess was the killer lived in the city, although with the time gap between murders, Presto conceded he could hail from Hong Kong.
Something occurred to Ridgewood. “Oh, I have to remember to call Malcolm. He left a message on my personal cell phone, not the government-issued one, while we were at dinner last night. I had it off, as I think it’s rude to take calls while eating out.” She sipped at her Diet Pepsi.
“Malcolm called just to check in, see if he could help in any way. He’s been preoccupied with some top-secret project. It’s fascinating. Did he mention what he’s been up to?”
Presto figured it had to do with the find in Iraq. Bailey had a lot to drink that night and probably said things he shouldn’t of. Presto chose to play ignorant. Bailey had come to his rescue. “He mentioned his work focused on religion, but that was about it.”
Her eyes turned downcast. “Sorry, then I shouldn’t really say anything. I want to report back to him when we’re through for the day.”
Pretso nodded.
“Speaking of which,” grinned Ridgewood, “which whacko is next?”
Presto gulped his fountain soda, which he preferred from the conventional can or bottle. “The next guy comes without a congregation: Terrence McNally. If you scan his name in Lexus/Nexis, you’ll find quite a few links. He’s originally from the Boston area. McNally’s name came up in the murder of a priest when investigators found a letter from McNally that accused the priest of molesting him thirty years prior amongst the deceased priest’s possessions.
“There was nothing to make the charges stick. However, I cued on him for a few reasons. The priest had been killed with Ricin, another powerful toxin like we have with our case.” Presto paused to lift his dangling sport jacket cuff from a grease pool.
“After a divorce, McNally moved to Queens. He’s employed as an actor, does off, off-Broadway. I watched him,” Presto reflected. “He’s adept with disguise. One minute he’s a crotchety elderly, and the next he’s a very passable middle-aged female.”
As Presto spoke, he was conscious that Ridgewood truly listened to him. She never looked away. He spoke freely, without trepidation. He wanted to catch the killer today, but he’d lament the loss of her partnership.
Presto continued, “McNally made the news a few years back when he wrote and directed an off-Broadway play. The story had a bunch of religious leaders—priests, rabbis, clerics, etc.—in a variety of different skits. In one, they embraced religious unity while they simulated a locker room orgy. In another, they decided to let God decide which religion was supreme. They played a game of Russian roulette to determine the winner. There was none. Each night it came down to two contestants. When the guy shots himself, the bullet went through his brain and killed the finalist beside him.”