You ever do those crossword puzzles, the ones that say ‘by
Edna Rodzini, edited by Will Shortz or Will Weng’ or some other famous
wordsmith? Your name gets first billing, but only the real afficionados know who
you are. Well, I’m the Edna Rodzini character, male version, Jack White. I slave
all day in the real world, then twice a week I get on the computer and work
until two or three in the morning building puzzles that pay next to nothing. I
don’t care though, because I love it and I’d do it for free. And, every so
often, one of those famous wordsmiths is stopped in his tracks by what I’ve
done, and takes a little time out of his busy life to tell me how much he liked
it.
One of the key ingredients of puzzling, especially since Merle
Reagle redefined the science in the early eighties, is the theme, like quotes,
funny twists on standard idioms, misplaced letters, symbols, even plots. My
favorite is word ladders, but not as the central topic, that would be too
mundane. I insert the ladder running right to left, top to bottom for all my
puzzles. I start with a five or six letter word that can be referenced to the
theme, the replace one letter at a time in four or five clues, until I have the
name of the speaker of the quote for example. It’s my little trick, my
signature. I don’t tell the wordsmith, and my devoted, yeah, right, audience
doesn’t know either. Still, maybe twice a year some guy says he found the
ladder, says he thinks it’s cool to find an unlisted puzzle in the puzzle. Never
got one from a woman though.
I’m always developing themes, looking for connections. I read
the paper, I get an idea. I hear the news, another possibility. You’ve got your
standard themes like Christmas and Thanksgiving, but current themes are my
favorite. In those cases I start and finish the puzzle in the same week, place
it before it’s complete, then work like hell to get it out the door. I’m not
famous, but I’m pretty good, and the wordsmiths want my stuff.
I read the New York Times and USA Today every morning, then as
an antidote, I consume the Wall Street Journal and the New York Post on-line
after dinner. I save a wide range of articles to feed my puzzle thinking. Then
one day it got more serious than that.
A couple weeks back I read about murder, in New York, of a man
named Culin. Well, that’s my favorite kind of name, one that, though not unique,
is really rare, probably shared by a single family. So I get on the internet and
find there are twenty Culins in the United States, at least on the internet
white pages. Yeah, that’s the kind of thing that tickles my fancy, hard to
believe, eh? Well, I recalled the name Bolan, a man killed in Miami. So, I
wonder if I can word ladder Bolan to Culin, keeping the last name theme. It was
a pretty simple exercise to go from Bolan to Bolin to Colin to Culin, all
relatively rare last names.
Well, that wasn’t the half of it, because I remembered those
names too. So I get on the internet, call up a news service search engines and
check out Bolin. He was murdered two months ago in Minneapolis, and Colin was
killed last month in New Orleans. I didn’t know if I was interested or scared,
but my hands were shaking. I tried Dolin, dead a month earlier in Detroit. It
took a while to get to Domin, dead a month before in Jacksonville.
It was midnight when I got into it hot and heavy, and
seven-thirty the following Saturday morning before I finished with Meide in
Phoenix. The guy was a real card, a puzzle in a puzzle. The word ladder gave me
the names of the dead men, and they were from the cities of the National
Football League, in alphabetical order. Yes, I knew, just him and me. So what
now?
I’m a member of the normal world, you know, the people who
have no idea how to find a cop, because we never need one, and they never need
us. I walk into downtown Portland, to the address listed in the phone book. At
the front desk I tell the uniformed officer I want to speak to someone in
Homicide. He asks why. I tell him I want to report a murder. He gets a little
hyper, but he looks like a rookie. I tell him to relax, it’s not so recent, and
time is on our side.
Now that puzzles him. Well, he looks at me like I’m from
another planet, then gets on the phone. I hear him laugh, then, louder than he
needed to, "Okay, Doyle, but don’t go kicking my butt." He points me up the
stairs, third door on the right.
The door’s glass square was stenciled Homicide Division.
Everything stopped when I walked in the door. Seven men and three women, all
plainclothes, heads together, or on the phone, or reading the paper. A big tall,
I mean real tall, like six-nine, man with thick unruly red hair stood at the
back of the room and waved. The din rose behind me as the room returned to a
normal beat.
Doyle motioned to the chair opposite him. He introduced
himself and I did the same. "So, how can I help you, Mr. White?"
I fumbled a bit, "Well, Detective, I’d like to report a
murder, no, that is, I’d like to report nineteen murders."
He got that look like, oh no, a wacko. "Nineteen new murders?"
I ignored it, "No, nineteen old murders."
The big Irish face turned red. "What are you trying to pull
here, White?" The mister was off the rose, so to speak.
I held out my hands, palms up. "Look, Detective, I’ve come
across something, by accident. I’ve connected up nineteen unsolved murders."
The detective turned his big head to the pretty woman at the
desk next to him. "Hey, Maureen, you got time to listen in?"
She took the chair next to me and introduced herself as
Detective McMartin. She was thirty-five, short, boyish thin body, much too
pretty to be dealing with the scum of the earth.
I repeated my last sentence.
She didn’t smile, but Doyle said, "How do you like that, a
serial killer buster walks into our midst," then turning to me, "and we’re
supposed to believe he’s found a connection missed by all of law enforcement."
I was unfazed by it. I was getting my bearings, these were
normal people, and the words I used obviously seemed unbelievable.
McMartin was more patient. "That’s strange, Mr. White, but we
don’t have nineteen unsolved murders."
I gave them more bad news, "None of them are in Portland.
In fact, none of them are in Oregon."
Doyle exploded, "Then why waste our time with them?"
McMartin leaned toward the big detective. "Hang on, Dennis,
let’s hear what the man’s got to say."
Doyle shook his head, the thick hair a beat behind. "I don’t
have time for this. I got three real, now killings to deal with."
A note of pleading entered her voice, like she’d done this
before, "Hey, come on, we have time. We’ll make time."
To me she said, "Okay, Mr. White, take us through your fifteen
minutes of fame."
I got a little testy, "Listen, Detective, I don’t need fame.
As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to leave this turd on your desk, and you guys
can figure out what to do with it."
She made the right sounds to calm me down, and I took them
through the paces. I had to explain what a word ladder was, and why it was I’d
recognize the connections out of the blue. It took longer than if they were
puzzlers, but they did okay. When I went through the names using the word
ladder, and the dates, they were interested, but still skeptical. They didn’t
understand how unlikely the confluence of names was, but when I listed the
cities and their NFL affiliation, they jumped on board. The change in Doyle’s
level of respect was visible, like he never doubted me for a minute. For some
reason the woman knew from the git-go that I wasn’t a crackpot. Woman’s
intuition, or maybe she just liked my face. I checked, force of habit. She had
no ring.
Doyle called his captain to schedule a conference room. They
debated calling the FBI, then tabled the idea for the brass to decide. A
half-hour later we convened with Doyle’s captain, the chief of police, a police
psychologist and two research-type civilian employees. When we finished going
through the scenario, the researchers took their notes and left.
There was a silence, then McMartin asked the
sixty-four thousand dollar question, "So, Mr. White, who’s next."
"Yes, well I’ve had a little time to think about it." I stood
up at the white board and wrote the points as I said them. "First, he only kills
men. Second, in their homes. Third, there is one month period between each, plus
or minus a couple days." I had a new idea, "Can someone check to see if the
dates fall on a full moon?"
McMartin scanned down the dates. "They do," she noted.
Doyle was skeptical. "How the hell do you know that?"
She blushed. "Well, Detective Doyle, if you must know, that’s
when I have my period." She gazed around the room. "And if I start hearing jokes
around the time of the full moon, I’m going to find the one responsible and rip
their lungs out."
Everyone laughed, and the spell was broken, but we had another
clue. I continued, "So," then calculating in my head, "the next murder will be
in five days, on November 26th, in New York City, and the last name
of the victim will be Rulin, Calin, or Dulin."
Doyle was skeptical, "That’s the only choices?"
I nodded with certainty. "Detective, I did some checking, and
the killer likes unusual names, no Jones, Brown, Adams, Dolans. These three
names are rare, and in New York there are only seven people with those last
names." I answered the detective’s incredulity, "There may be more, but those
were the only ones on the internet, and since the other names were on the
internet, I’m guessing that’s his source."
The chief turned to the captain, "We’re not going to play
cowboys on this one, John, too much at risk." To Doyle, "Get the FBI serial
crimes people in here and brief them." To McMartin, "Maureen, you get with the
cops in New York. I want you and Doyle, and," he paused, "Mr. White in New York
by tomorrow."
The meeting broke up with everyone leaving me alone at the
table. Ten minutes later McMartin poked her head back in the room and said,
"Better pack a bag, Mr. White, we’re catching a five o’clock flight."
* * * *
The plane was packed. We sat in silence and enjoyed the
flight, as much as two over-long men could without bulkhead seats. We landed in Chicago on time, but the second leg
was late, so we had a two hour layover. We planted ourselves at one of those
little bars they have sprinkled throughout the causeways. I bought the first
round.
I asked Doyle, "What did the FBI have to say?" I felt like I
was one of the team, honorary cop.
The big detective laughed. "They were less than respectful at
the beginning, almost got up to leave in disgust, right Maureen?"
She smiled at the recollection. "Yes, but we didn’t let them.
We took them through your list, leading them backwards, exactly twenty-eight
days at a time. When we took it forward, putting the football teams on each, we
had them hooked."
"Yeah, but they didn’t like it that someone else had found
it." The grizzled cop chuckled. "And to top it off, they wanted us to butt
out, the gall. We said we’d meet them in New York."
"I take it you’ve cleared me?" I was greeted by two blank
stares. "Come on, it’s only logical. I picked up the tail almost as soon as I
got on the street."
They both shrugged, then the pretty detective asked, "So you
must have given it some thought, Mr. White ..."
I interrupted to tell her to call me Jack.
"So, Jack, why is the killer using these puzzles?"
"Your psych girl must have had some ideas?" I made it a
question.
Doyle shook his head, "No, other than the usual litany of why
serial killers are serial killers. I could have gotten that from a book. She
said it was a signature, but what good’s a signature if no one knows you’re
using it?"
"I think she’s right. I’m sure she’s right. It is a
signature, just like my word ladders in my puzzles. I don’t tell anyone they’re
there, I do them to mark my puzzles. None of my puzzle buyers ever notices, but
every so often one of the people working on them sees it. They know it’s a
signature right away, once they’ve found it. So, yes, this man’s signing his
work. He doesn’t care that the cops haven’t found it yet, in fact, that’s the
game for him." I jabbed a finger at McMartin, "He’s a pretty gutsy guy, giving
us three coordinates, the name ladder, the NFL cities, the full moon."
Doyle interrupted, "Yeah, that really pissed off the feds,
that they’d missed the fact that these guys were killed on a full moon. I
thought they were supposed to have computer programs to pick up that kind of
stuff, automagically."
I agreed, then to McMartin, "This is the only chance we’ll
have, you know, because once he knows we figured it out, he’ll stop. It’s a game
to him."
Doyle swallowed the last of his beer and ordered another.
"They never stop, Mr. White. Serial killers are driven by more than the game."
I sort of nodded and shook my head at the same time. "That may
be, but his rate of killing is based more on the fact that he’s
getting away with it, that you haven’t a clue. Once the game is up, he’ll slow
down, change his MO, maybe find a new signature."
McMartin swished what was left of her seven dollar strawberry
daiquiri. "Dennis, Jack’s right. We better get this guy the first time."
* * * *
When we met with the NYPD and the FBI, there was an
immediate, but brief turf battle. The feds wanted full control, but NYPD wanted
to run the sting on their home field. My cops agreed with NYPD, maybe because
they were bribed with an active role. As if anyone cared, I agreed with NYPD.
Well, NYPD won. The feds were pushed into a support only, but they made it clear
that if we didn’t nail the guy, it would be our butts in the sling. Notice the
our, I was a special advisor to NYPD for the next four days.
The local cops found the guys on my list, didn’t talk to them,
but followed them, took pictures, built thin bios, but nothing to raise
suspicion. In the war room, the secret task force convened twenty-four hours a
day. There were a hundred cops assigned, and six members of the brass, all the
way up to the mayor, and they were the only people who knew a thing. The most
critical job was keeping the story out of the media. Secrecy? It was so secret,
no one else in the police department knew there was a big operation going on,
more or less what it was.
The war room was a conference center in the bowels of city
hall. Pictures of the potential victims covered the walls as the police searched
for look-alike cops. Lucky me, I turned out to be a dead ringer for an Isaac
Rulin. I volunteered as soon as I saw his picture. They gave me a reluctant
okay, with an even more reluctant Detective McMartin as my newlywed wife.
The day before, November 25th, the seven men and
their families were brought into the war room. There was a presentation made,
then the families were put up in a downtown hotel under fake names, in rooms
with guards and no telephones.
The team was getting jittery; I mean, what if we had it wrong,
what if we hadn’t found the right names, what if he sees us, what if we miss
him, what if he doesn’t show what if he died in a car accident on the way to the
city? In the next thirty-six hours we better have a
killer in custody. Suddenly the downside risk looked like a drop off the Empire
State Building. Yeah, I know it’s really trite, but the tension was so thick you
could cut it with a knife. Tempers were flaring, everyone was on edge. Me, I was
planning my next puzzle.
Later in the day, the seven potential murderees sat in chairs
next to us, their doubles, as make-up people changed hair color, skin tint, and
outfits to complete the disguise. That afternoon we each came home, so to speak,
from work, to houses and apartments staffed by backup cops installed when the
family was evacuated.
I was greeted by McMartin in a frizzed blond wig, yellow capri
pants and a flowery red blouse, the typical outfit de jure for the
oversexed Mrs. Rulin whom I was sure was enjoying the unexpected bridal suite. I
whispered in her ear, "Aren’t newlyweds supposed to kiss after a long day
apart?"
She gave me a hug of sorts. "Don’t take advantage, Mr. White."
Yes, I was Mr. White again. "Advantage? Hey, I’ve been out of
the house for nine hours, be thankful a kiss is all I want."
She slapped me on the butt.
"Sexual harassment," I chided.
She ignored me. I followed my scripted routine, I put on the
television and drew the blinds. My wife prepared supper.
I was watching the early late-night news when the door crashed
open. A big, stringy guy with greasy dreadlocks stood like a messenger from
Hell, backlit by the entry light. An image of Charles Manson crossed my mind. He
slowly raised the pistol in his left hand, like a ritual, searching my face for
fear.
My beautiful cop twisted around the door, her pistol held
tightly in both hands, her arms extended, her feet firmly planted on the ground.
Crazy eyes turned to meet hers, fearless eyes as the gun’s barrel continued to
rise to me. There was a crack, like a toy pistol and Maureen twisted into the
wall, her gun skittering on the floor towards me. A deafening explosion filled
the room. I dove as the bullet tore into the chair. I grabbed the pistol and
turned to face the killer. The next bullet took me full in the middle of the
bullet proof vest and threw me against the wall. The pain was total, but I held
onto the gun, sighted and pulled the trigger. The Manson wannabe was thrown back
into the doorway where he slid ingloriously to the ground.
A mean looking little girl, unkempt hair hid her face, earth
mother clothes hid her body, burst through the door, dropping her tiny pistol
with a clatter. A plainclothes cop was right behind her. He stooped to pick up
the gun, then pulled her upright, away from the dead man whose blood was
spreading in an almost perfect arc from the left side of his body.
Maureen McMartin pushed herself upright on one arm. I reached
down and pulled her to her feet. It wasn’t easy getting the words out, "You all
right?"
She felt the entry wound in her forearm and winced. "No. Yes. I think so. How
about you?"
I wheezed, "I’ll live."
The room was filling with cops. A medic came in to attend to
her arm, then pulled her away. She asked me a last question, "Who’s she?"
Like I’d know. I’m only a puzzler, not a mind reader. "Got me.
We were lucky."
* * * *
We didn’t get any closer to the reason why. The mousy girl
turned out to be thirty-five, the same age as her playmate. She hadn’t said a
word since she was taken into custody, except, "It’s God’s will." We knew their
names, James Thomas Soames and Tillie Mae Tucker. We knew his wife left him for a
quarterback with the Cleveland Browns. We knew he taught English up until a few
years before. We knew they were from Arkansas. We knew they’d disappeared two years
ago after Tillie Mae’s parents turned up dead.
I sat next to Detective McMartin and winced from the pain of
decompression as the plane rose. I tried my best line, "So what are you doing
for the rest of your life, Detective?"
"Whoa, big boy, I’m taken."
I frowned.
She said, "But thanks for the interest."
I was mollified, life goes on. I was already preparing a group
of new themes for my crosswords, something like Word Ladder Mysteries. I was
thinking I didn’t need a wordsmith to get it into the Times
this time.
-the end-
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