Sapphic Voices Mystery

The Ross/Fletcher Case

Part One

"What?" I answered the phone in a daze. It was barely a question. I looked toward the clock perched atop my dresser. It read three thirty AM.

"Agent Ross?" A deep, familiar voice asked.

"Yeah." I replied, "Do you have any idea what time it is?" I desperately tried to gather my thoughts enough to identify the voice but failed.
"Who is this?" I asked instead.

"I know. I'm sorry. It must be three in the morning on the East Coast. Listen Karen, this is Eddie, Eddie Vaughn." The voice answered with a slight Midwestern accent.

"Sergeant Vaughn?" I asked. My head cleared rapidly at the mention of his name. Sergeant Ed Vaughn had served with my father in the King County Police Department for as long as I could remember.

"Yeah. It's lieutenant Vaughn now, but that's not important.
Something's happened." He said.

I sat up in my bed and clutched the comforter to my chest. The movement woke my cat Chelsea who mewed and stretched.
"Dad?" I nearly whimpered.

"I've called in the bureau and requested you specifically. I don't know if they'll send you but I want you to know I tried."

"What happened to Dad?"

I heard Eddie sigh. "He had been missing since Friday. A couple of kindergarten kids found him two hours ago. They..." Eddie kept talking but I couldn't hear him. I closed my eyes, sat the phone down, and rubbed my forehead. Eddie was still talking when I returned the phone to my ear, "The Seattle police doesn't have anything at the moment, but their lab
just got the body. They're..."

"How?" I interrupted, "How did he die?"

"That's the weird part Karen." He responded. He paused for a long second before continuing, "He was strangled from behind with an extension cord, then stabbed in the stomach."

My heart stopped. "Copycat?" I asked.

"That's my guess."

"I'll be on the next flight."

"Karen, what about the bureau? They may not like that idea. They will probably consider you too close to the victim to risk involvement in this case."

"Let me worry about that. I have a few favors to call in."

----------

I tried not to look out the window as the plane taxied toward the runway. The entire craft seemed to sway back and forth without rhythm or the cognizance of those directing it. The constant movement made me nauseous. I reached forward and grabbed an airsick bag; much to the dismay of the passengers seated on either side of me.

I hate airplanes. I hate the uncomfortable seats, the bad food, and the expensive drinks. I hate the tiny bathrooms and that my luggage was routinely lost. I didn't want to think I would soon be traveling at great speeds several thousand meters in the air protected by what amounted to a large aluminum can. If purgatory actually exists, and it's personalized, mine would be spent in the cabin of an airplane.

Ten minutes later a steward informed us seat belts were no longer necessary. I scampered to and from the bathroom then settled in for the long flight. After half an hour I determined sleep was impossible. I retrieved my laptop computer from beneath the seat and decided to refresh my memory with an old adversary of my father's. After connecting to the plane's courtesy phone I pointed the web browser directly to the FBI's site and logged in. A quick search brought up the name and case file I desired.

Ruben Fletcher was born in the winter of nineteen sixty-five. His first three known murders were done with a small hatchet. He then began strangling and stabbing his victims. His preferred to use an everyday extension cord and a common kitchen steak knife. The weaponry switch was considered very unusual by many authorities on such matters. Later, in custody, he was asked why he had chosen a different weapon. Ruben told reporters he did it to confuse police. He also confessed he enjoyed strangling a great deal more because it lengthened the process.

Fletcher died at the hands of the state. The loved ones of his twenty-seven known victims watched as a tablet fell into a bucket of liquid and a small chamber filled with gas. With his last breath he vowed vengeance on the man who caught him, my father.

A note on my father, William Ross, was at the bottom of the file. It told how Fletcher had been captured. A single fingerprint on the cuff of a victim's shirt and a trail of paper led my father to Ruben Fletcher's place of employment. He chased the killer twelve city blocks and took a slash across the chest before tackling Fletcher in the middle of a department store. That had been nearly eight years ago.

Now it seemed someone was imitating Fletcher. Or were they avenging him? The file would have mentioned children if Fletcher left any behind. Who else would idolize Fletcher so much as to do this?

Someone had snuffed out the man Fletcher himself hated more than any other being on the planet. They were sending an obvious message and murdering a prominent police officer guaranteed it would be heard. But there was more to this puzzle than the death of one man. There had to be. Would there be other victims? Was someone killing people they assumed Fletcher would want dead? Perhaps Fletcher had even left behind a list. If so, who would be on such a list?

I knew both the bureau and local police would have their best psychologists putting a profile together on the perpetrator. They would be analyzing the crime scene as well as any number of intricate details to learn as much as they could. During one of the many phone calls I made this morning after speaking to Eddie I had been informed Seattle's best and brightest were on this case. In addition, the FBI was sending their infamous Serial Homicide Unit. By pulling a few strings I had been invited along.

----------

The plane touched down in Chicago at exactly nine thirty five AM. I wanted out of the oversized soda can with wings as badly as anyone on the flight and a flash of my badge assured I was first to depart. Dr. Ian Worth was waiting for me. Six years ago he had been head of the forensic science department at the University of Georgetown. More than that, he was my mentor and friend. Since then the FBI had pulled him back into their ranks from early retirement and put him in charge of their precious Serial Homicide Unit.

Ian's hair had grayed a little since I last saw him in college. It was the only thing that had seemed to change. He wore a dark gray three piece suit with a starched white shirt and jet black tie. Small, oval wire framed spectacles hid his eyes with their slight tint. I couldn't help but smile at the self-presentation that had earned Dr. Worth the nickname, "The G" in university circles.

He smiled when he saw me and, with the aid of his ever-present mahogany cane, met me for an embrace. "Karen," He greeted me in his thick southern drawl, "It's so good to see you again."

"And you," I replied. I offered a short bow, which was returned. "I only wish it were under better circumstances." I continued.

Ian turned to look out a nearby window. The smile faded from his face slowly as if someone was letting the air out of a bicycle tire. "Yes," he finally responded, "I was terribly disturbed when I heard the news. I demanded the team be given the case." He paused for a moment and returned his gaze to me. "I understand you've been assigned to me for the duration." He said, concern spilling into his voice.

"Yeah, I had to call quite a few people to make that happen." I admitted.

"I know." Ian said, "I heard from at least three of them."

I laughed a bit, shook my head and asked, "I have you to thank for this, don't I?"

He smiled and nodded his head away from the plane. "Let's get going." He said, "The rest of the team is waiting across the tarmac."

Varied small talk enveloped us as the enormous airport's electric train sped us to the appropriate landing strip. From there we rode something that resembled a golf cart to a private hangar. A sleek, silver jet waited there. Inside were five of the greatest minds the FBI had to offer. I was about to briefly join them.

After introductions I was brought up to speed on the Ross/ Fletcher case. The crime scene was a small warehouse near the Port of Seattle docks. It seemed as though my father was not kept there for the several days he was missing but was brought to the site shortly before he was killed. So far only one clue of any value had been unearthed. A single fingerprint was found on the cuff of my father's bloody, tattered shirt. It was from Ruben Fletcher's right index finger.

If you have enjoyed Tara Chen's "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Chapter One", then please be certain to e-mail her at  tara[at]dementedkitty.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here to continue on to "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Chapter Two"

Click here for a list of all of Tara Chen's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

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