Survival Instinct Read online

  The following morning he rose from the comfort of his bed and dressed for work. Every sinew in his body reminded him he was fast approaching forty-six. He heard raised voices and sighed as he made his way to the kitchen. Damn teenagers.

  “What’s going on?” Jamie asked.

  “Geek-features here has taken the last waffle,” said Ellie, slapping Steve on the back of the head.

  “For God’s sake, find something else to eat, bird brain,” Steve jabbed.

  “Like what?” she asked and stamped her foot.

  Steve stuffed the last square of waffle into his mouth and grinned.

  “Stop it you two. Do you have to argue all the time?”

  “Mom always made sure we had plenty to eat,” replied Ellie in a sulk.

  “So now it’s my fault? I don’t suppose you would ever think to do some shopping. You’ll find some cereal in the cabinet,” said Jamie.

  He left the kitchen and collected his mail. As he opened the letter from his attorney, Steve and Ellie rushed past him, pushing and shoving each other out the door.

  Jamie scanned the divorce papers. Something about the finality of it in writing caused his gut to ache and burn. He felt a sudden and painful urge to urinate, and he kept reading as he walked to the bathroom. With the papers on the sink, he lifted the toilet seat. His eyes darted to the lines sentencing him to “life as a free man.” Maybe flushing them would give me some closure, a symbolic coup de grace on a marriage flushed down the crapper.

  Without passing a drop, he returned to the kitchen, made coffee and contemplated the end of his twenty-five years of marriage. June had skipped town and moved to the other side of the country on the West Coast for a young surfer she met on vacation. It bugged him that for five years before his separation, she must have had it in her head the marriage was finished. Almost non-existent, sex was only on birthdays and anniversaries.

  After starting on a mission to recapture her youth with plastic surgery, even the special occasions went out the window. She timed her headaches to perfection. The presents he bought her no longer had an effect. He knew it was over but hoped the situation would pass. Then twelve months ago, as soon as she was happy with her “new self,” and there was nothing left to tuck, she decided to change her life. June dropped him and the kids like a bad habit. He sighed, Time for me to make a move.

  Jamie went to put the garbage in the back yard. Halfway back to the kitchen, he heard the gate slam shut, turned and made his way out back. He looked up and down the street but saw no one. He went to the garage, unplugged the power connection to his electric car and took off for work. He winced as the whining motor started. An image flashed through his mind of the oil wells burning in Iraq during his time there, as he contemplated the demise of the gasoline engine.

  He noticed a black Mercedes behind him as he left his street. The car seemed to be following at every turn, as his eyes darted from the road ahead to his rear view mirror. The notion that someone was following kept him occupied. Focusing on the congested freeway, he stopped worrying about the Mercedes when it dropped three cars behind. Many people in his neighborhood worked downtown, besides, now that his divorce was final, he could stop worrying about private detectives.

  He parked his car and entered the office building.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jameson,” said John at reception.

  Jamie ignored him, only offering a token grunt. He squeezed into the elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor. As it emptied, there were just him and Betty, the office’s temp. Betty smiled, but soon her smile gave way to fits of giggles. Following her eye line, he could see the cause of her amusement. He looked down and saw his shirttail caught in his zipper and placed his briefcase strategically to hide his embarrassment.

  He shuffled out of the elevator as the door slid open, holding his briefcase firmly in front of him and made an exit to the left and the safe haven of the men’s restroom. How in the hell? As he fought furiously with his zipper to release the shirt, the Senior Partner, Mr. Cuthbert walked in.

  “For goodness sake, JJ, you’re supposed to do that in the confines of your bedroom.”

  “Oh, funny, my shirt’s stuck in my zipper for God’s sake. Here, give me a hand.”

  Greg, one of the other partners walked in.

  “Jesus, I’ve heard of the casting couch. Shouldn’t you two perverts be doing that in private?” asked Greg, with his odd cut-glass, English accent.

  “Another comedian. All we need. My zipper’s stuck you fool,” said Jamie, red with rage.

  “I know. Vaseline will do it. Wait a minute,” said Greg as he held open the door. “Anyone got some Vaseline?”

  “Here,” shouted Betty.

  As Greg returned to the restroom, Jamie heard Ben yell before the door closed.

  “What’s the Vaseline for? I’ve heard of brown nosing but. . .”

  At last, the zipper gave way. Mr. Cuthbert, Jamie and Greg left the restroom and walked past Jamie’s team.

  “Good morning,” said Greg, smiling and passing the Vaseline back to Betty. “Wonderful, just the tonic, thank you. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  Jamie watched his team as they tried to get on with their work and keep from laughing. As soon as Cuthbert and Greg disappeared into their offices, all his people started to belly laugh. He decided to leave them to their fun until they calmed down and returned to the restroom. He swilled his face with cold water and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  “Stay calm, stay calm,” he repeated, as he tried to gain some composure, but his reflection ignored him. He took a deep breath and marched out of the restroom to his desk.

  They were still sniggering and he decided it was time to put a stop to it.

  “Okay you guys, I can see the funny side, but the joke is over. Now can we get some work done?”

  The team went silent as he grabbed the first file from his IN tray and banged it down on his desk.

  “Here’s your coffee, JJ,” said Mary, his secretary, biting her lip.

  He noticed her attempt to move the file. Jamie picked it up and held it. Everyone seemed to be working, but he saw them shooting glances his way. Opening the folder, the heading on the first page loomed large. “Application form, Singles’ Club Membership, @E-dating.”

  “Very funny! I knew you guys were up to something,” he tossed it in his wastebasket.

  Jamie had joined the firm twenty years ago after he left the army. He gradually worked his way up the ladder, and following his promotion to Partner, Cuthbert shipped him off to England to open their London office. He reluctantly returned to America after running the London office for eight years and was disappointed when June insisted they return to Brakes County.

  He spurned the status of his private office to sit among his colleagues, only to retreat to his inner sanctum for meetings. In his mind, it helped keep them on their toes and encouraged team spirit, no doubt a throw back to his army days. This worked fine when he was married, but since his separation, he knew his mood swings affected his management style, which at times could be demanding.

  As lunchtime approached, he thought about the juncture he had reached in his life. His divorce left him feeling as if he were stuck in the mud of an estuary with the ebb tide on the point of returning, unable to escape from the mire. Retrieving the application form undetected, he slipped it into his briefcase as the mail cart arrived. Sifting through his midday mail, he took a deep breath and opened the letter from Robertson Industries.

  Dear Mr. Jameson,

  Sorry, but for us to change advertising agencies, your pitch has to grab our attention, and I am afraid on this occasion your ideas for our advertising campaign have failed to inspire us in the way that they must.

  “Stupid bastards,” he said, crumpled the letter and whizzed it in his wastebasket.

  “Problems, JJ?” asked Mary.

  “Robertson’s a no go.”

  Mary looked away with a pained expression. This was the fifth a
ccount in a row. Her phone extension rang and she called out to Jamie, “Cuthbert would like to see you right away, JJ.”

  Jamie gathered his composure and smiled as he entered his office.

  “JJ, take a seat.”

  The smile disappeared as the senior partner pushed a plastic stand-up frame bearing the company motto toward Jamie.

  "If you think you are indispensable... Think again..."

  He looked at the motto and gasped in panic.

  “Look, JJ, you’ve been with us twenty years and helped us build the partnership to what it is today. I know June left, but the figures these past twelve months are appalling. We need you in the game.”

  “You’re not firing me?”

  Cuthbert shook his head and looked down at the plaque.

  “No, but it’s time to get your act together. This is a business. We can’t afford to carry passengers. Now run along and think about what I’ve said.”

  Jamie felt like punching him at that last remark, but with his job at risk, he thought it best to let it pass. He left Cuthbert’s office and ignored the questioning looks from his team. Staring straight ahead, he made his way to the restroom. Looking in the mirror once more, he hardly recognized his own reflection. My God, what the hell’s the matter with me?

  Jamie didn’t know which was more amazing: that one woman could drag him down so low, or that he was already contemplating how to replace her. The one thing he knew for sure, if he didn’t turn things around, his life would get worse. Much worse!

  Contents

  The vacation is over

  Chief of police, John Hogan, arrived back from his vacation. Having spent the morning dealing with his backlog, he finally cleared his desk. Flicking the intercom switch, he called his secretary, Madge, and she stuck her head in the door.

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Here, take this with you to file and get Frank and Joe in here.”

  “Right away.”

  The two detectives entered his office.

  “How was the vacation, Chief?” asked Frank.

  “Never mind the vacation, what ya got on this damn serial killer?”

  “Jeez, Chief, cool it before you drop dead with a heart attack. I’ve got the files right here. Same MO as the Jayne Kraymer case six months ago,” said Joe as he dropped the files on the desk.

  “Cool it my black ass! Cool it when I got City Hall and the damn media on my back?” He looked at the file and asked, “Next of kin?”

  “Yeah, there’s a mother; she lives out of state,” said Frank. “The local sheriffs’ office arranged for uniformed to break the news. They phoned twenty minutes ago. All the mother could tell them was, she moved here nursing a broken heart. Caught her husband having an affair. She moved for a fresh start. Said her daughter phoned earlier in the evening and seemed happy. Didn’t mention anything bad.”

  Hogan didn’t need to open Jayne’s file, the details were imprinted in his brain. Her name haunted him. His team had a good success rate clearing up homicides. Ominously, her name remained on the incident board heading for a cold case filing. He opened the new file.

  “Okay, let’s see what we got.”

  Hogan should have been immune to homicide photographs by now, but he wasn’t. He didn’t have to refer to Jayne’s file to confirm they had an “alleged” serial killer on their hands. Looking at the photograph, he winced.

  “Jean Carter, white, age thirty-two, single, no children. The victim is in an identical position to Jayne on the bed. Looks like our man all right.”

  He looked at the second photograph, taken in the bathroom. He could see a message scrawled on the mirror.

  ‘It’s easy, if you use a pencil with some confusion.

  I am a maniac tau eta nu.’

  “Another crazy message! We know he’s a maniac, but God knows what he’s trying to tell us. What was his first message?” He turned to Jayne’s file to refresh his memory. “Damn it, I should know it by heart. Here we are.”

  ‘If you’re up to it, Him so us wage.’

  “We don’t need a handwriting expert, it’s the same hand. What have forensics come up with?”

  “A big fat zero,” Frank answered, “as far as forensics is concerned. Both raped, the guy used a condom. They each had duct tape over their mouths. They both have severe bruising on the wrists, probably caused by handcuffs, but he took the tape and the ‘cuffs with him. The stab wounds are caused by something big like a hunting knife. No DNA, no prints, but one of the crime scene guys said if we come up with a suspect in the next few days, we should find his dick bruised.”

  “Whoever the bastard is, he sure hates women,” said Joe. “You can bet your pension, Chief, when we find the sicko, he’ll have history of abuse from women.”

  “Is that right? Since when did you qualify as a profiler, Joe? For Christ’s sake, my wife gives me abuse every night, but it don’t make me no serial killer.”

  “I was just saying...”

  “Well don’t. Just stick to plain old detective work and leave the fancy profiles to the shrink. What about a boyfriend?”

  “None we know of,” answered Frank. “I spoke to Alice Gibbons from the victim’s office. Apparently, she only moved into the County four months ago after her divorce. They started going out bar-hopping around a month ago. Jean wasn’t interested in dating, seems she didn’t think she was ready for a boyfriend. The only lead she came up with was that Jean volunteered at the local homeless charity kitchen.”

  “Jesus, that’ll keep the department busy. Half of them are ex-cons or have mental problems. When you finish up, better get down there and dig around, see if you can find any leads. Do we have anything to connect the victims?”

  “Apart from both the victims names begin with a ‘J’. Maybe the killer has a thing about names beginning with that letter?” said Frank. Hogan gave him a look of disbelief. Joe seemed to sense his annoyance and butted in.

  “Nothing we can find in their backgrounds to tie them together.”

  “Damn, that’s all we need. Have you notified FBI?”

  “No but we were just about to...”

  “What you mean ‘about to’, you two got shit for brains? For all we know he could’ve committed murders in other States. For God’s sake, get it done now! Then I want you to go over their backgrounds again.” Hogan reached inside his drawer for his stress ball. “Nothing to tie ‘em together? Damn it to hell, boys, they’re both single!”

  The door closed as Frank and Joe slinked away. The phone rang and he answered.

  “Chief Hogan,”

  “Chief, Mayor’s on the line.”

  “Damn it, Madge, all I need, put the son of a bitch through.”

  “Hogan, what the hell are you doing about this serial killer shit? It’s plastered all over the papers.”

  “For a starters, he ain’t no serial killer, technically speaking. We need three murders with the same MO for him to be classified as a serial killer.”

  “Damn that editor! He’s put this out on purpose because it’s an election year. I want you to put all your resources behind this. Meet me at my office later today, say about four, and fill me in on progress. We need to work out what to say to the rest of the media before we have a panic on our hands.”

  The phone clicked dead.

  “Yes Mr. Mayor, no Mr. Mayor,” he said into the handset and slammed it down with a bang.

  Frank popped his head in the door.

  “FBI are running the MO through their national database; they’ll get back to us. The guy I spoke to said their specialist team only becomes involved when the perpetrator is classified as a serial killer.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sounds nuts to me too, but at least it gives us time. We gotta catch that asshole before the bastard murders again and we have FBI crawling all over our station.”

  “He did say he’d have their profiler give you a call.”

  “What, just to tell us we have a crazy on our hands? Okay, get down to the homeless shelte
r and let me know what you find.”

  Hogan paced around his office, squeezing the life out of his stress ball. As Frank left, Hogan’s phone rang again.

  “John Harman on the line for you, Chief. Says he’s a psychologist and you are expecting his call.”

  “Put him through, Madge,” he yelled. “Hi, John. Chief Hogan.”

  “Hello, FBI said I should give you a call. You have any experience with serial killers?”

  “No... but in my book they ain’t no different from the rest, well, except the body count may be higher.”

  “Ha! Heard that one. Look, I’m contracted to the FBI and your killer doesn’t appear on their radar yet. If you want me to carry out a profile, it would be your budget. But, if you have any questions I can answer over the phone, I don’t mind helping.”

  “How about the killer’s name and address? Listen, John... I don’t wanna be rude, but in my mind, only good old fashioned detective work will catch a killer.”

  “I hear you, but trust me, this guy sounds like a serial killer, and they have different motives. For one, their victims are nearly always strangers. The killers usually chose their own Caucasian type as victims. Typical age, late twenties to early thirties, but if the crime scene is organized, it’s likely he’s older and intelligent.”

  “He? What do you mean ‘he’?”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Sorry, please go on.”

  “They nearly always carry out their killings close to where they live. Sometimes they display paranoia with some hearing voices. We usually find there is what we call a ‘pre-crime stressor’ that starts the killings. This event could be something in the killer’s life from which he, yes he, can see no escape. The killings relieve the stress. It is not unheard of for women to be serial killers, but in this case with the rape, the only way a woman could be involved is if he had a female accomplice and one of them exerted influence over the other.”