Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) (5 page)

He couldn’t be sure. There were no windows, just like in the other room.

I must be underground.

Trying to avoid the pools of dark blood, he carefully stepped over the corpse. He wasn’t successful, as the bottom of his left foot landed in the sticky substance.

He went to the computer, which looked so different from those he remembered. The monitor looked as big as his television back on base, though incredibly thin. Hoping to discover something about where he was, he hit the spacebar. The prompt for a password came on the screen.
Damn
.

He flung open the cabinets, hoping to find something, anything he could use. They were filled with medical supplies—gauze, needles, tape, linens, alcohol, and cloths. He poured some alcohol on one of the cloths and wiped the sticky substance off his foot.

The refrigerator held more bags of blood.

I need clothes before I get out of this damn place.
There were no scrubs in the cabinets or on the shelves, and though he wasn’t sure what he would find above ground, he was certain he would stick out wearing a toga fashioned out of a sheet.

Before someone returned he wanted to be long gone. His only choice was the dead man’s clothes.

By the gashes in the coat and shirt it was clear to him that the man had put up quite the fight. Had the victim wounded his attacker? He spotted a bullet hole in the wall by the stairs. What had happened to his killer?

Opting to leave the bloody coat and shirt behind, he pulled the man’s shoes off—all the time remaining alert.

Touching the corpse’s ankles, Austin knew the man hadn’t been dead long. His flesh was cool but not stiff. He guessed little time had passed since the victim lost his head.

He removed the corpse’s pants. One bloody stain on the left pocket was the only sign of the murder. He glanced at the overcoat hanging by the stairs. The article would have to do, and would sufficiently cover the stain on the pants.

Putting on the pants, Austin felt a billfold in one of the pockets. The currency it held was British pounds. He learned from the driver’s license that the headless man’s name was Walt Turner. He also realized the year he’d seen on the calendar in the other room hadn’t been a trick, as Walt’s license had been renewed January of the same year.

I’ve lost so much time since the mission in Iraq.

Walt’s address was in London.

Angelique was in London. She’d accepted the teaching job at King’s College just last month.

No. That’s not right. This isn’t 2003.

That ancient wave of familiar guilt returned full-force. He shook it off. No time for regrets. After he was long gone from this place, maybe.

Angelique might have left England and returned to the U.S. by now.

Whoever placed him down here knew about his sister. The photo proved that.

Was she in danger? The only thing he had to go on was the return address on her letters—Flat 2B, 29 King Street, London, United Kingdom.

Could it be the same after all these years?

Deep down he hoped she was back in the States, far away from the UK. Away, she would be safe. Close, he wasn’t sure.

He put on the shoes, tying the laces extra tight since they were a size too big.

He ran back into the room he’d just left. Unwilling to leave the photo of his sister, he took it out of the frame and stuffed it in one of the pants pockets.

With the Glock in his left hand, he ran to the stairs, grabbing the overcoat with his right.

He slipped on the coat and tucked the gun into one of its pockets, bolting to the door above and whatever was waiting beyond.

CHAPTER 6

8:46 AM

Dr. Thomas Wilson’s hands trembled as he brought his morning cup of Earl Grey to his lips. The tremor, a product of the disease he had learned to live with, was his ever-present companion for the past fifteen years; Parkinson’s. He no longer feared it, but his search for a cure would not end until his last breath. Still, he had much to be afraid of given the recent unwanted notoriety that wretched letter had given him.

My last breath might be sooner than later.

He placed the cup on the table. Despite his shaking fingers, he loaded his pipe with fresh tobacco. Sitting in his overstuffed chair enjoying his tea and pipe gave him some solace in defiance of the darkness of the room. The morning sun remained hidden behind his thick drapes. Until recently, they would have been opened at this hour, allowing the beams of light into his residence. He always loved seeing his wooden bookshelves illuminated by the warm glow of dawn. The sparkling specs of dust floating in the air like tiny stars. But the drapes needed to remain closed because of what had transpired recently.

When Wilson had initially received the post, he gave it little thought. He was familiar with receiving slanderous letters. Too many people thought him a crackpot.

And when he had learned of the slayings of the young women the next day, he continued to believe the letter to be a hoax, though the news troubled him.

Nancy Black, a Tory MP, had quite the influence in parliament. Gail Simmons, an actress with flaming red hair, had starred in a dozen films very popular with young adults.

The normally stiff upper-lipped Londoners were expressing their communal grief for the women very openly. Politeness, reserve and restraint were being tossed aside for public tears and comforting hugs. The whole country had gone utterly mad, especially after the mysterious disappearance of the victims’ bodies from the morgue.

After the additional detail came out the next day that an officer had been so close to Simmons’s home at the time of her murder, Wilson had realized the message he had received was genuine and contacted the authorities, immediately handing over the post.

His phone rang, startling him. “Damn reporters.”

He decided to let Gita Drazek, his domestic, answer it. Thirteen years his junior, the fifty-seven-year-old woman retained the curves and large breasts that he, to this day, never tired of admiring. She was of Polish descent, which he had verified by a sample of her saliva he had required of her several years ago, as he now did with everyone who worked for him. She was not just Polish though; eight percent Spanish. When he had informed her of the findings, she had tossed a dish to the floor in disgust, breaking it into a thousand pieces. Whether coming from her Polish or Spanish ancestors, he loved her fire.

With the receiver to her ear, Gita stood three steps to his left, with eyes full of worry. “A Mr. John Reeves for you, sir.”

“He is not a reporter, my dear,” he said, hoping to alleviate her concern. “Mr. Reeves is the young man I interviewed over the phone the other day. Quite the résumé and very ambitious. He seemed genuinely interested in my work.” And since Mr. Reeves’s surname had been the same as his long departed mother’s before she had married, Wilson had offered him a job. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“Says it is urgent he speak with you.”

He motioned for her to hand him the receiver. “Hello, Mr. Reeves.”

“Dr. Wilson, I just wanted to tell you that I can come in today and give you the saliva and blood sample you requested.”

“You sound out of breath, young man. What are you doing?”

“I’m just very anxious. I’m about to have a quick breakfast, and then was hoping to report to your lab. I really am excited about working with you.”

“There is no rush, Mr. Reeves, as I mentioned to you before.”

“You told me that I could not start working in the lab until I provided the samples.”

“That is true. And the lab was closed the day I interviewed you.”

“I want to get started as soon as possible. Isn’t your lab open today?”

“It is.” He grinned. Reeves reminded him of a younger version of himself.

“How long is the turn-around for the samples?”

“Oh, the samples are just for my research. I don’t need the results of the tests before you begin. Would you like to start today?”

“Yes, sir. Very much so.”

“I will inform the lead tech to expect you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wilson. I really appreciate this. Thank you so much.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Reeves.” He hung up the phone and turned to Gita. “I wish I had a hundred more like that one.”

“He did sound eager.”

“That will be all, Gita.”

She cleaned off the table next to him, as she did every morning. “You’re not having your second cup of tea? Sir, are you certain?”

What a question. Certainty of anything during these troubling days was not just unlikely, it was absolutely impossible.

“Yes, my dear.” He placed his left hand on the stack of newspapers she had brought in with his tea. “Much to digest from the press this morning.”

Gita shook her head but left without another word, having already shared her dismay with him over the grisly mail and the events that had occurred the past few days since its arrival.

After Gita’s departure, he turned his attention to the task at hand. At the top of the stack was
The Daily Mirror
. The headline sent a chill up and down his spine.

Copycat Serial Killer Rips Through London. Scotland Yard Baffled.

The editors gave more gruesome details about the state of the young women’s bodies and reminded their readers that the police were still trying to locate the two missing corpses. But, thankfully,
The Mirror
had not republished the letter.

My letter. Since the bloody thing made it to the national media, I have not been given a moment’s peace.

Normally, around noon, he left his home for the café in the boutique hotel down the street to read
The Times
in its entirety. This week he had cast that practice aside out of necessity. He could not risk some reporter recognizing him and then accosting him with a flood of questions. The only pages he devoured, now sitting at his dining room table, were about the recent murders.

Again, thankfully,
The Times
did not reprint his letter today. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky with
The Guardian
,
The Daily Mail
, or
The Morning Star
. Each, once again, gave space to every bloodcurdling syllable in the correspondence, including his full name as the recipient. But the worst recounting came from the buggers at
The Daily Telegraph
.

Scotland Yard Brings in Dr. Thomas Wilson for More Questioning.

What the author of the
Telegraph’s
article had failed to mention was that Scotland Yard had exonerated him of any connection to the brutal slayings. That kind of dull fact did not sell papers.

One of the many experts cited in the piece repeated what his peers had stated in some of the other publications. “Whoever wrote Wilson’s cryptic message did have some knowledge of two communications from 1888 that many, like myself, believe came from the original killer. The Saucy Jacky postcard was sent to Scotland Yard on—”

Wilson stopped reading. He already knew the consensus on his note from the killer—a blending of the postcard and the infamous Dear Boss Letter.

The experts had books to sell and speaking engagements to schedule. Since Britain was suffering from a horrific case of Ripper fever, it made the marketing task that much easier for the current authorities on the subject.

He tossed the pile of papers to the floor and looked at his half-empty cup. He had no idea what he should do next. He had granted no interviews to any media outlet, but now he questioned his earlier resolve to stay out of the public frenzy. Left to their own devices, the press would come to their own conclusions.

“If I give an interview, they will only twist my words,” he said aloud once again, as he had done many times since his life had been turned upside down. But his resolve was crumbling. The offer by Andrea White to appear on the BBC to give his side of the story might be the only way to get through this quagmire.

He valued his privacy above most things, but that seemed to be a luxury of the past.

I do not have a choice, do I?
He retrieved the card with Ms. White’s contact information that had been hand delivered by a young man from the BBC. Using his mobile, he rang the woman.

“Hello. Andrea White.”

“Ms. White, this is Dr. Thomas Wilson. I would like to take you up on your offer to appear on your program.”

“Oh, Dr. Wilson, you can’t imagine how thrilled I am to hear you say that. One moment, please.”

“Certainly.”

Ms. White’s voice became muffled. He had no doubt that she had placed her hand over the speaker.

He took the few seconds of silence to puff on his pipe.