Deadly justice, p.38
Deadly Justice, p.38Darrell Case
Jerold Robbins paced the Oval Office. For all intents and purposes, the D. C. Killer was dead, at least that's what the public and the news media believed. Little did they know that this slayer of women was heavily guarded, more closely monitored than he would be in a maximum security prison.
He was totally impervious to detection, much less requital.
He had thought commanding others would be enough that enlisting them to kill by proxy would satisfy his blood lust. He could order the murder of anyone he desired. It wasn't enough. He longed to exert that power himself; to cause the life force to leave the victim's body himself; to be a jury of one over the time and the way the victim’s term on earth would end.
He retrieved the news clippings from a secret compartment in his desk, and read the latest about the D. C. Killer. Last week’s article in The Washington Post named all his victims, at least the ones, they knew about. Reading the articles left him flat. It could not cure what ailed him. He ached to hold the gun, the knife, the rope, to feel their flesh, to watch the light in their eyes die.
He felt trapped. He must find a way to escape prying eyes and gratify his fetish. In the meantime, he would order another elimination, but not a criminal. It was time to make a statement. But who? Who could he take out to shock the populace and make the media snap to alert? He pushed the questions to the back of his mind.
Right now he was to meet with Benjamin Netanyahu to try to persuade him to sign a peace deal between Israel and the Palestinians. Peace, peace. Who cares about peace? Just let them kill each other.
He strode through the White House, the most powerful man in the United States, a serial killer flanked by his protectors, his guards. All eyes turned to him as he entered the room. He ruled the world. He held life in his hands. Self confident. In perfect control. He smiled at the attendees.
“Let's get started, shall we, gentlemen?”
The gathering lasted two hours. They progressed no more than, if they had stayed in their separate corners. In the midst of the meeting, it came to him. He would order the hit on his attorney general.
Next on the day’s agenda was a budget meeting with Senate leaders. These men had never been his friends when he was one of them. Now that he was president they bowed scraped and almost kissed his shoes. The republicans as always were standoffish. How he hated these people. All, that is except Senator Gyration.
The Senate's Budget Chairman’s was elder statesman named Donald Gyration. A wizened old veteran from North Carolina, Gyration never took no for an answer.
“You know Jerry, if you wouldn't take such a hard line we could make progress on this little matter.”
A thousand times Robbins had insisted Gyration call him Jerold or Mr. President. Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled. His hands itched to strangle the old fool.
“Why Senator, that's what I was hoping you would do.”
Gyration's face hardened as he leaned in closer to the president. “Oppose me on this Jerry and I will cut you off at the knees,” he said in a low growl.
Robbins smile broadened. He had found his target. The attorney general was safe for now.
“I look forward to it, Donald.”
Donald Gyration went to sleep that night secure in the belief his constituents loved him. Two months ago, they re-elected him for the ninth time. He had trounced his opponent and won by a landslide. As long as he kept the money coming, they would keep him in office. One more term and he would retire to live the life of a fat cat.
He burped and rolled over on his back. He drunk too much wine at dinner. The housekeeper had gone home. His wife was vacationing with her sister in Aruba. He could sleep in tomorrow. He had a meeting at ten with the armed services committee nothing pressing.
He was snoring softly when the dark figure stepped into the room. Moving swiftly the man brought his fist down on Donald's oversized stomach. Rudely awakened, the elderly senator snorted and let out a loud “Oomph!” He clutched at his bruised middle as he struggled to sit up. His assailant was sitting right next to him.
Fear sweeping over him ,he croaked, “Who are you? What do you want?” His hands trembled becoming clammy.
“You, you old fool. You've lived too long.”
“Who...Who are you?”
Deadly Justice by Darrell Case / History & Fiction have rating 2.6 out of 5 / Based on39 votes