Criss Cross (3 page)

 

T
hirty-two-years later, the seed implanted in Evelyn's womb had become a man. He was the product of her worst fears. He was the epitome of her highest joy. Like a pendulum, Evelyn's fate had swung high and low.

He was sprung from a foundation of pain. He was derived through great deception. He was born in the shadows of darkness, in murky waters. He was Evelyn's son. He was her pride and joy. His name was Micah Jordan-Wells. And he had yet to know his title.

Evelyn had never told him about the circumstances surrounding his conception. She had not spoken to him of his father. She had shielded him from an awful truth.

She thought what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Their lives were crafted in the simple act of denial.

She had made a singular choice. She took the uncomplicated path. Then fate intervened and dared to display its uncontrollable factors.

Micah Jordan-Wells was battling his own demons. The sins of the past were visited upon him. The truth of his existence hovered nearby. The truth waited. It waited patiently. Then it struck. It cast its net in the deep of the night upon Micah Jordan-Wells.

 

 

Micah's dehydrated body jerked spastically. He sat up in bed. Sweat-dripping terror of the darkest kind drenched his body. His mind whirled in confusion.

He looked around. The room slowly came into focus. He had emerged. He freed his wet body from the twisted sheets.

He jumped out of bed and strode to the shower. He knew it was time to face the real demons of his world. There were enough of them; he didn't need to conjure up more in his sleep.

Micah Jordan-Wells was a high profile, very celebrated homicide detective in Newark, New Jersey. He was a man who had done battle with a great many of Newark's dragons. He'd affectionately been given the nickname of the Dragon Slayer by Newark's elite corps of the press. Right now he was the darling of the media for reeling in a man called Silky who had wreaked terror in the streets of Newark.

Silky had created horror in their hearts. He had numbed the minds of Newark's citizens and police force. In short he had scandalized them into electric outrage.

Silky didn't just commit crimes; he gave the impression of creating them like an artist creates a portrait—murder by design. His murders were like hideous paintings, created by a master who wants you to marvel at the boldness of his strokes and guess at the illusions he has hinted at.

Silky possessed a darkness of spirit that leapt out from the carcass of his victims and screamed for justice. The callousness with which he performed made him unparalleled in the annals of crime.

Micah was still grappling with the tail end of Silky's case, which was taking its place in Newark's crime history as something akin to notorious.

He turned the spray nozzle in the shower to full force. He shivered as the shock of ice-cold needles sprayed his body into rigid alertness. As the water rained over his body the “X” beckoned, once again. It summoned him. There was no resistance in him because there could be none.

It was happening again. A visionary connection between him and an horrific act manifested in his flesh, swamping his being, connecting him to a dark and evil path. The inhabitation of the person's eyes he looked through made him shudder. The things he saw made him weep. They were his eyes and yet they were not. Physically the eyes belonged to someone else, spiritually he carried the burden of seeing and feeling what they were doing. They were his hands and yet they were not. Who was he fooling? He was there. The burden of the act was his.

The immeasurable joy of the act of murder swept through his limbs and merged with his being. It was another woman, another victim, and yet another masterpiece.

She was a prized photograph. Her high-heeled feet kicked wildly. Her legs were bare beneath the gold dress. Moonlight streaked across the shadows of darkness in the room. Tied around her throat was a pair of silk panty hose. He pulled tighter and tighter. The “X” seared itself into her forehead.

Her wild kicking slowed. Her legs flopped beneath her. The last shred of life drained from her body. One of her gold silk-strapped, high-heeled shoes fell off her foot. Her body went limp. It was final.

He stroked the soft silk of the panty hose. He loved the feel of the silky softness between his fingers. Stark fear sprayed from her eyes. Only now it was frozen in its portrayal.

He smiled. The rapture was upon him.

The mark of the “X” pulsated within his body. His skin gleamed with the shine of it. He took one look around. His final gaze rested on the framed picture of a six-year-old boy.

T
here was a sizzling current of anticipation in the air outside of Newark's courtroom, as well as a deep rippling wave of destiny riding on a strident undercurrent.

The penalty phase of the trial for Silky—also known as David Edward Stokes—was just beginning. It had brought out the masses in full force.

Present were the common citizens of Newark who sought peace of mind and justice, as well as law enforcement officers from bordering cities who had kept abreast of the chase as Micah tracked the elusive Silky.

The media had marshaled itself in full force. Everyone was waiting for the final hammer to sound on Silky's murdering spree.

Impeccably tailored in a dark pin-striped suit, a wine-colored silk tie, sporting soft Italian leather wing-tipped shoes that matched his tie, and a low hair cut that showed off the natural soft wave of his hair, Micah Jordan-Wells cut a dashing picture of self-assuredness and confidence.

Micah was a dangerously handsome man. His face had been cast with classic features. His coffee-colored skin was velvety looking in its smooth texture and his eyebrows had a natural wavy arch to them.

He had long dark sweeping lashes that fringed a pair of eyes that were penetrating as well as observant. Yet, there was a light of kindness that shown through from time to time, capturing you in the depth and brilliance of their light brown coloring.

Charisma clung to Micah as though he had been given a permanent patent on it.

He stood just outside the courtroom door in the hallway with his partner, Nugent Lewis, otherwise known as Nuggie to those near and dear.

Nugent was about as laid-back as they come. He was made of solid stuff. Never easy to ruffle, Nugent observed the world through a self-created distance. He was also Micah's right-hand man. They were closer than brothers.

As two of Silky's counsels approached the courtroom they both gave an inward sigh upon spotting Micah Jordan-Wells, who was clearly king of the day, standing in front of the courtroom.

Micah slid smoothly into script as they stopped in front of him. He pinned his sights first on Judd Nelson who was the lead counsel. “You should never have taken this case, Judd, and you know it.”

The second attorney, Rick Bowker, jumped in before Judd could reply. “Ever the expert. Right, Micah?”

Nugent laughed. “I would never have figured you clean-cut prominent guys for ambulance chasers, but . . .” Nugent shrugged his shoulders and let his sentence trail off leaving a clear rebuff in the air.

Judd Nelson said, “You want to reel in your ego just a bit, Micah?” He ignored Nugent.

Judd's entire law firm, including the partners, had thought the high-profile case of Silky would be easily locked down. They had looked forward to bucking horns with the charismatic Micah Jordan-Wells.

They had counted on it to pitch their law firm as well as the presiding attorneys into the national spotlight, which it had. What they hadn't counted on was being made to look like national fools.

It was a simple case of murder by insanity, or so they'd thought. But it hadn't turned out like that. They had assembled their experts. Patrick Hayes, the prosecutor, had discredited each of them during the trial.

The end result was that now Micah stood looking at them knowing they would have given their right arms to be any place else and in his conceit he was being less than gracious about it. The press hovered nearby, catching the whiff of a possible catfight.

Derrick Holt, the
Star-Ledger
newspaper's crime reporter smelled a golden opportunity arising. Never one to let it pass, he strolled over and took the tension to the next level by complimenting Micah.

“Micah, dazzling footwork man, just dazzling. It's been brought to my attention that your police work and testimony are being written about in countless publications around the country, and it's slated to become a documented case study on the university circuit.”

Derrick stuck out his hand and Micah reached for it.

Micah smiled. Meekly he said, “It looks like you have more information than me, Mr. Holt, but I certainly hope the capture of such a dangerous criminal as David Stokes will assist in precedent for other killers that prey on innocent society.”

It was all Judd Nelson could do to keep his breakfast down and not roll his eyes heavenward in front of the media who had slunk closer and were beginning to record the conversation as well as snap pictures.

Judd's job had been to paint Silky as insane, to say that a man who committed such heinous crimes couldn't be sane. They had done it in countless other cases. This one was different. The jury didn't buy it.

Immediately upon Micah's response an NBC news reporter jumped in. She stuck a microphone in Micah's face and said, “Micah, your performance at the trial was one that courtroom legends are made of.”

Before Micah could respond, the CBS correspondent said, “You turned the witness chair into something akin to sainthood. How does it feel?”

Derrick Holt, not intending to lose the momentum he had created said, “Yeah Micah, you and the DA were in perfect harmony. If this wasn't a courtroom trial I might have thought I was at a symphony the way you and Patrick Hayes, orchestrated the details of this case.”

Everyone laughed his or her agreement with the exception of Judd Nelson and Rick Bowker. They stood trying to maintain their composure and hang on to the remaining shreds of their dignity as the press ignored them.

And there was no way they could excuse themselves from the crowd gracefully. They were caught up in a riptide and Micah Jordan-Wells was reigning supreme.

The NBC correspondent said to Micah, “The trial was like virtual reality. You put the jurors in the victim's skin. They were living the murders by simulation. That's quite a feat. I have to say that in the many trials I have covered I haven't ever witnessed the singular bond you seemed to have with the jury. The city of Newark and its residents are grateful to you.”

“There really isn't a need for that,” Micah said. “That's my job. It's what I do.”

John Morrison, head of Newark's homicide division and known to friend and foe alike simply as Wolfgang, walked up in the midst of the media circus.

He smiled. “It's time to go into the courtroom.”

The court's deputy sheriff nodded his appreciation. He had been just about to approach the mob to shepherd them in.

Micah turned immediately on his heels. He strode into the courtroom with Nugent right behind him and Wolfgang, who was Micah's superior, stuck close to his side.

The media turned off their electronic communications, as they were not allowed to use them in the courtroom. No cameras, no cell phones, no pagers, and no beepers unless you wanted to be strictly barred from the proceedings as well as reprimanded.

The media did not even have a chance to question Wolfgang; the penalty phase of the trial was ready to begin.

They all filed into the courtroom to hear the final sentencing of David Edward Stokes and to celebrate the end of his horrific, serial murdering marathon.