Brutal Honesty-Part Three

Jonas Ephraim had been a famous writer, publishing over fifty bestselling novels in various genres, some under pseudonyms, and over ten nonfiction works that were hailed as some of the greatest and most informative of nonfiction writing. He had written several collections of short stories and even a few anthologies of poetry. He had been working on an autobiography when he was killed, apparently earlier in the same evening as Natalie and Casie stood in his living room. The room was modern-looking, with Tungsten-Halogen light fixtures and empty walls. Sparsely decorated and furnished in a minimalist style, the utilitarian table was spattered with blood.

Natalie noticed another sheet of paper lying on the table. The body was propped up on the couch, the TV remote in one hand, and a large bowl of popcorn resting in the other. Carefully positioned. The killer was definitely organized. Preplanned, too, from the looks of it. The 76" flatscreen high-definition TV was untouched, except for a small blot of blood. Blood stained the carpet, too, and Ephraim had what looked to be a number of gunshot wounds, maybe some stab wounds as well.

"Natalie," Casie said, "what do you see?"

Contemplative as always, Natalie paced the room slowly, careful not to disturb any evidence. "I see the work of a professional killer. A little messy, but intentionally so. Modus operandi unclear. Clean entry and exit. No broken locks, windows, or doors. No weapon, no trace evidence. Just the body and the blood, all of it the victim's. We're dealing with a psychopathic murderer here." Lightning briefly illuminated the modern-looking room, and then thunder resonated in the background.

"Yeah, that's the impression I got too." Casie circled the room, stopping to look at the poem. "Oh god," she whispered, her heart beating way too fast.

"What?" Natalie leaned over Casie's shoulder to look at the single page.

"I wrote this one too..."

Dearest love

By what name shall I call thee?

You do not hear my whisper

You do not heed my calls

I desire to become yours

And for you to become mine

Whilst you are in the sun

A glorious star

I am of the shadows

Seen, but not seen

Heard, but not heard

I speak

but never am I spoken to

I call

But you do not answer me

Someday, this will change

And someday approaches too fast 

The signature appeared at the bottom in black ink, as black as sin itself. -I truly am thine, even as you are mine:  When there is no vision, the people perish. (The Book of Proverbs)

Natalie frowned, recognizing the quote at the bottom. "Another quote from a holy book."

"Sorry?" Casie snapped out of her thoughts.

"The first quote came from the Hindu holy book," Natalie explained patiently. "the Bhagavad Gita. This one is from the Bible, the Christian holy book. Or you know the Talmud, the Jewish holy book. Proverbs appears in both.

"Well," Casie said slowly, "why are my poems appearing with holy quotations? Signed by a maniacal killer?!"

"That's what we're supposed to figure out, Casie. We're the FBI agents. This is our job."

"Right." Casie stepped back. "I need a moment."

"You do that..." Natalie bagged the poem, labeling it meticulously before coming around again to the body. Ephraim looked thoughtful, almost, instead of frightened. From the way blood was scattered around the room, Natalie knew the body had been positioned this way intentionally...she just didn't know why.

Dimitri Youngblood read the last address on the list, and then read it again, and then read it a third time. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. What?! All of the other addresses had been relatively close together in Los Angeles. But this last one was in Washington D.C., over 2500 miles away. 2685 miles to be exact. He swore under his breath. Dimitri realized he would have to fly there. Usually that wouldn't be a problem, but his private jet was in Miami. Commercial airlines, he thought in disgust. Now he would have to go through airport security. His gun would never make it through the metal detector. 

Slowly, he smiled. There is always an easier way. Dimitri remembered his father telling him that, a long time ago. That was before the accident. The smile disappeared.

All the same, arranging a flight to Washington D.C. would be simple. He could always call in a favor from an old 'friend' or another, but this time he had a better plan. He, Dimitri Youngblood, was going to hitch a ride on a military aircraft straight to the Pentagon. 

Out loud he said "I'm going to finish this job, and in the time allotted. And then I'm going to go home for sure." And finally finish what I've started, he silently added.

Six and a half hours later, Dimitri walked through the doorway of a beautiful Colonial. He admired the aging red paint, the architectural beauty. But there was no time for admiration, only for the job he was being paid to do. He entered expecting his victim to be startled, astonished, even afraid. But Kenneth Wilkinson, baseball extraordinaire, wasn't daunted. He sat on the sofa as if expecting Dimitri. Wilkinson had a gun in his lap, but in an instant it was in his hands, aimed at Dimitri's face. Wilkinson himself appeared calm and composed.

"Welcome," Wilkinson said. But that wasn't what unnerved Dimitri so much. It was what he said next. "Welcome, Dimitri. I've been expecting you." 

<a href=http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977214655&nav=Namespace>Part Four</a>