Myth Man (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

B
ACK AT THE SAFE house, Myth Man administered drugs and nutrients to the homeowner. The rage burned on—a fire that found an appetite and now needs fuel to consume. Souls, not that he believed such a thing existed, were the kindling; Myth Man was the torch. Now the Feds aimed to extinguish his incendiary nature.

His source’s tidings had taken a turn for the worse. No more than an hour ago, the FBI had cleared Dominick Presto of any misconduct. Worse yet, they knew
he
was behind the Internet messages. His computer connection was secure, that he was sure of, but he was having so much fun stoking the flames that he wanted to continue the combustion. Well, with the exception of that fool, Trumpet of God. The idea of killing that prick never left the back of his mind.

The NYPD was now alerting all the religious heads that a provocateur was inciting this crisis. Myth Man had wondered why he had been unsuccessful in getting the Hindus to lash out at the Muslims. Maybe those cow-loving freaks were a bunch of Gandhi-like pacifists.

Worse yet, the mayor now brought the FBI in on the case, and Presto had been assigned as their liaison. Not good.

One aspect of his new line of work, which he found difficult, was there was no one to discuss his brilliance with. Myth Man imagined a different scenario where he walked into his true residence, and saw his wife:

“Hey, honey. What do you have cooking there?”

“Oh, just some spaghetti with meatballs, just the way you like them.

Taking off his jacket, he places it and his attaché case on a dining room chair. “Gee, honey, sounds splendid.”

“How was work today?” she asks.

“Very productive but problematic. See, it started off well. I was able to, literally execute my plan. I cut off this Hindu guy’s head. You know me, I’m artistic, and so I hung his head from the hand of this four-armed goddess. Next I cut off this elephant god’s head and put that over the severed neck of the dead Hindu. But on second thought, I like monkeys better than elephants, and they have this monkey god. Was I too imprudent in my haste?”

She smiles. “I am so proud of you honey. I know slicing through the cartilage and a tendon of a neck isn’t easy, even with a sharp sword, but I do applaud your decision. Maybe it’s a girl thing, but I like elephants better. I find their trunks sexy,” she purrs in Myth Man’s vision.

No wonder so many serial killers are mentally disturbed. Who to converse with? Myth Man had finally moved past chatting with his drugged victim in the safe house. He thought about it, and after reflection, he did not like what he saw. He was not insane, and he would not act like a psychopathic loony. He was successful in business, maintained a marriage, as well as other hobbies and activities, including his most recent gig as Myth Man.

He felt he juggled his roles well. His wife had no idea, of course. She suspected an affair. He didn’t do much to alter her suspicions; it was far better than the truth. Plus, he didn’t care for the stupid bitch. It had been a long time, if ever, since she’d uttered anything worthwhile.

He always heard that everyone has a gift but was unsure of what his wife’s was. She was neither funny nor smart. A horrendous cook—even steaks and microwave popcorn were an adventure. Lazy—their expensive apartment was a constant wreck. Shallow and uncaring—she hated children, animals, and the misfortunate. She lived forever drunk or on a combo of pills her therapist prescribed, usually a cocktail of both. That was just as well; she was good for nothing more than a weekly screw.

Meanwhile, despite the recent spate of unfortunate news, Myth Man had become one of the most famous men in America. Every celebrity has a shelf life. Myth Man intended to keep his newfound fame for as long as possible before he’d fade off in infamy. True, no one knew he was really the killer, but that was fine. Unlike the idiots who left clues sealing their downfall, he had no intention of getting caught.

It was still a few weeks from his next kill, but the adrenalin was there. He viewed his work as sport. He was player and coach. Winning depended on execution, which required planning. Then came the day. This was how it must feel inside the locker room on Super Bowl Sunday—poised for the kill, then the glory.

He finished administering to his victim and housemate. It was a pain in the ass, but the man had to stay alive until his work was finished.

Satisfied, he headed toward the door, which accessed the garage. Unlike his earlier vision, when he returned home to reality, dinner would be spaghetti, no meatballs, and bland, generic sauce from a jar.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

P
RESTO OPENED THE MENU, made a selection (filet mignon), and shut it in less than ten seconds. It was a steak house, what could be the fuss, even for a man who considered himself a food connoisseur.

Malcolm Bailey insisted that he order the appetizers and selected an aged sirloin for his main course. He gulped his scotch down before the waiter could escape. “Another.”

When the waiter departed, the still-suited Bailey updated him. “After seeing your name, I contacted your precinct and was told you were on vacation, but because I was with the FBI, they directed me to your precinct commander.”

Presto smiled. “Jack Burton?”

“Yeah, hell of a guy. He loves you.”

Presto knew that, but it felt good to hear it. “You know I love the work, but without Jack, I would have packed it in by now.”

The waiter returned promptly with Bailey’s drink and placed it on the table.

Bailey grimaced after a hearty sip, not from the booze but instead from bitterness over what this man continually endured. “Well, first thing Jack tells me is that you’ve been suspended. Being away in Washington, I had not heard the news. When he told me why, I laughed hysterically and then explained what we uncovered. Thrilled, Jack connected us to your police commissioner,” he said dismissively. “The man is a useless bootlicker. Says he has to talk to the mayor’s office? Who runs the police department, the mayor?” Bailey mocked incredulously.

Pesto smiled. He initially met Bailey on his first serial killer case. Throughout the summer, different string members of the New York Philharmonic were being murdered in their own apartments. Sheet music of pieces they performed was left on their dead poisoned bodies. The profilers made their psych analysis. Forensics offered vague clues. Questions were posed. How did the murderer easily access each location without a struggle? Did the victim know the killer? Why the sheet music?

At first, suspicion fell upon the stern, uncompromising, reclusive conductor, although there was no evidence to suggest his complicity. The murders made headlines and embarrassed the city. After the fourth murder, the Feds provided assistance, led by Malcolm Bailey. But within a week, Presto found the killer.

He had tried to get a meeting with the lead detective, and as with Danko later, he was rebuffed. Presto had attended many of the Philharmonic’s shows with his mother, who was a fan of live performances. Without anyone else to discuss the case with, he turned to his mother, something he would do throughout his career.

The musicians killed were not the soloists or more highly regarded orchestra performers. The idea that the murderer was a fan had been discussed, but without a lead, the cops were inconclusive in their approach. His mother was convinced that the dead performers had erred in some way, and the sheet work was the insult to injury. That notion also was not entirely new.

With a keen memory, Presto went back to the shows he attended. He recalled several familiar faces, but two stood out. Alone, they did not appear to be enjoying themselves. One had muttered angrily beside him at a urinal, while the other had been irritable on a concession line and hardly clapped at the concert’s conclusion.

He took his memory to a sketch artist. Satisfied, he showed the photos to the remaining orchestra members, who did not recognize either man. Then he took the sketches to the people who worked the box office and several of them pointed to one sketch. He was a regular. He’d always paid cash, and the trail went cold.

Presto canvassed all the stores that sold classical sheet music. At one, a helpful girl also remembered the same sketch as the box office staff. The man had paid cash again, and a search of the sales records was fruitless. Presto left thrilled, however.

Presto went to the lead detective, but he was not granted a forum. He was busy. Presto tried to pass the information along. He was told they’d get back to him. After two days, Presto left another message, but again there was no reply.

His mother prepared a meal and a strategy. Presto had a hunch that the killer was a string musician of sorts. She suggested they split up and show the photo to every conceivable outlet for this skill. They divided music schools and stores by geography.

When he entered a specialty store, the store personnel were in the midst of a shift change. The young man at the counter did not recognize the sketch but explained that he had only started a week ago.

The guy called into the back, and few moments later a man emerged through hanging, string beads. Not only did the owner recognize the caricature, he had a name: Dusty Hunholt. He also had a story.

Hunholt was obsessed with classical music, and as a youth was more than proficient on violin. His teachers saw a master in the making. The gift was stolen when a powerful firecracker took the tips off his left finger. He still played, determined he could overcome his injury, but conceded to Owens he had not, and that without an audience, it could only be considered a hobby.

Hunholt owned an exterminator company, which later explained how he got into the victims’ homes.

Presto followed the suspect after he left work. As Hunholt passed a hunched woman in a silk scarf, her cane swung out and tripped him. Before the man could rise, Presto fell on him with a gun to his head. Hunholt cooperated with the handcuffs, but that was more to alleviate the feeling of being crushed than the fear of being shot.

Once handcuffed, the woman disappeared. That was the compromise. He didn’t want his mother involved at all, but she would not take no for an answer.

The arrest was a coup for the city but not Presto. It was generally perceived as pure luck, right place at the right time. Bailey, who witnessed Presto being dismissed, sought him out.

The two men were stark opposites. Bailey was debonair, outgoing, confident, and statuesque. Presto wasn’t. But they enjoyed each other’s company. Bailey, who claimed he could sniff bullshit from a mile away, could not detect a trace from the large, shy detective. Bailey sized him up as having low esteem and high intelligence. Life’s experiences introduced Bailey to many men who had those traits reversed.

The waiter brought the appetizers: grilled stuffed mushrooms, escargot, and a goat cheese salad. When the waiter left, they divvied up the food, and Bailey finished his story.

“The mayor’s office called back. This dipshit named Spencer Fool.”

Presto fought from projecting a half-chewed mushroom.

“Once again, I was not sensing the cooperation I expected and desired. I told this Fool character to get the mayor immediately. I didn’t care if he was meeting the president or getting wild with his wife or a mistress.”

Bailey paused to stab and savor a portobello. “The mayor turns out to be an agreeable guy,” he said sincerely. “I summarized the situation and told him my office would courier information that will prove that the charges against Dominick Presto are unfounded. Then, I had him immediately dispatch the police to the Hindu community. He requested the Feds assist on the case. I agreed. I’m sending two agents to work the case.”

“What about you?” Presto hoped to have Bailey around.

“I’ll check in here and there, but my immediate focus is another matter. I’ll tell you in a minute but first wanted to inform you that you’re on the case again. You’ll be working with my two agents.”

Presto dropped his fork. “What?”

“That’s right,” Bailey beamed. He knew his friend was set up for a reason. Reinstating him might shake things up.

“The lead agent is a female, and excuse me if it is politically incorrect to say so in today’s culture, but she’s extremely sexy.” He blew on his hand and fanned it. “The male agent is a bit reckless but sharp. I took him under my wing. My only lament is, like you, he doesn’t drink much anymore, which in his case is a good thing. Irish lightweight,” he said as he downed the last of his scotch.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it, big buddy.” Bailey eyed Presto. “Get going on that salad. You look like you don’t eat enough greens.”

“Does pistachio ice cream count?”

They had occupied the table for two hours before they got around to the dessert menu. Bailey hated to be rushed and hadn’t seen his friend in a few years. The big tip at the end always made his restaurant visits worthwhile.

“Dom, I almost forgot to tell you what my main assignment is.” Bailey propped his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “I’m sure you’ve seen that story about that archeological find our soldiers made in Iraq.”

The waiter had returned. Bailey selected key lime pie and a glass of Graham Port, while the adventurous Presto ventured for something called the chocolate lover’s barge.

“I read something about that in the
New York Times
and then never saw much about it again.”

Bailey grinned. “There’s a reason, but let me give you the background. Irrigation, dams, and canals altered the Euphrates River. Near the Syrian border, there’s a section where the river’s water level has dramatically receded. The locals noticed a curious mound that now protruded the river. Some U.S. soldiers heard the clamor and went to inspect the find.

“The mound was a series of large stones. A curious and well-fastened wood staff rose from the pile. The soldiers first removed the curious locals and then set about clearing the stones. When they did so, they found the staff wedged in a wood box, similar to a Christmas tree stand. Underneath were long stone slabs.”

Bailey paused when the waiter brought their desserts. Presto’s square bowl was filled with chocolate ice cream, fudge, small semimelted chocolate wedges topped with chocolate mousse.

Bailey took a small bite and then took a small sip of the port. “Before the soldiers got a chance to inspect the stone slabs further, an archeological team arrived from London. The team took charge and proceeded in a much more methodical manner. As they cleaned the stone, they found engravings. The writing was Hebrew, a form known as Mishnaic, which was supposedly used prior to Biblical Hebrew.”

Bailey stopped to get at his dessert. Presto, the eager listener, had almost swabbed the deck on his chocolate barge.

“When they removed the slabs, they found a stone-fortified hole. Inside was a long, rectangular stone chest, with more Mishnaic Hebrew writing. This caused quite a stir.”

Done with his dessert, Presto perched forward, fascinated.

“There were all sorts of theories on what was inside, but before it was opened, the Iraqi government seized control. Israel had requested jurisdiction of the find, but the Iraqis refuted the claim. There would be an uproar in the Arab world, they insisted, and they asserted that since it was found within their borders, it was rightfully theirs. They rejected Jewish historical claims, saying that Muhammad insisted that the Jews and Christians were
people of the book
, and all worshipped the same God.

“That’s where the story died in the press. The United States quietly maneuvered to broker a deal. All parties wanted the story to simmer down, but there’s an agreement in the works. The Iraqis, for a yet undisclosed, but presumed large sum of money from a conglomerate of sorts, are willing to part with the find from the Euphrates River. But there were two other conditions the Iraqi’s insisted on,” Bailey said, and took the final bite from his pie.

After Bailey wiped his mouth with a white napkin he lifted from his lap, he continued. “From a PR standpoint, they will not release anything to the Israelis. Instead, they will turn it over to the Americans who will quietly turn it over to a Jewish organization here in the United States. But before hand, the Iraqi’s are going to, with our assistance, fake the opening of the Euphrates River find and declare the contents as worthless relics. As you can gather, it’s a delicate situation.”

Presto understood alright. The recent, exploited, religious tension was testament to the unfortunate divisions that existed. “I know all too well,” he knowingly added. “What do you suppose is inside the crate?”

Bailey flashed a toothy smile, his dimples cratered. “This is where it gets interesting. A lot of stuff is being bandied about,” he said and twirled his index finger in the air. His left eyebrow rose. “The Ark of the Covenant has been perhaps the most spectacular of suggestions.”

“Wow,” Presto said. His wide, fleshy face was in awe.

“Yeah, but the prevailing opinion from the scholars who know this stuff is no less spectacular. You’ve heard of the Dead Sea Scrolls, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, the Mishnaic Hebrew that was used on the Euphrates River discovery was also found on one of the scrolls in the caves of Judea. That scroll,” he said dramatized slowly, “is known as the Copper Scroll.” Bailey stopped and motioned for the waiter. “Hold on a second,” he said.