Ram Johnson: Part 1, Spiders

The man who kneeled over the dead Caucasian woman's body was about six feet tall. He likely weighed in at a powerful 220 pounds. His head was shaved bald and his skin complexion was such that it was hard to tell if he was a very tanned Caucasian or a light-skinned Hispanic or African-American. His nose had been broken enough times that it was fairly flat and always seemed to be at a slight angle. Sometime in the past, he had received a scar to his face that started mid-forehead and sliced down, skipping over his right eye, and ended just above the right corner of his mouth. The scar wasn't deep and was faded now, but still a visibly lighter line on his otherwise darker skin.

He stood up from surveying the woman's corpse and looked around the alley in which the body had been found. His clothes were all neutral colors, high quality material and stitching, but nondescript. No labels or little alligators or initials on the dun-colored, button-up shirt. His brown khakis were similarly strong and serviceable, showing little signs of wear. His shoes fit the outfit, but gave the impression they could be used for running, walking, or standing for hours.

For all his powerful, well-muscled build, he moved with the languid fluidity that big cats in Africa use. One might mistake the way he moved for a dancer it was so smooth and effortless. However, one look at his strong, overtly scarred hands and knuckles, and that person would rethink the opinion. Only boxers, martial artists, or street fighters have hands like that.

His keen hazel eyes, spotted something near a trash bin about fifteen feet ahead. He stepped over to it, pulled out a steel probe, and investigated. The Police Detective followed after and, realizing what he was looking at, exclaimed, "Jesus, Johnson! There's blood on the wall over here and it isn't even marked! Get one of the lab techs over here to collect a sample and photograph it."

"Well," the detective continued, "What do you think? Is it one of 'em?"

The man stood, adjusting the shoulder holster carrying his Colt .45 Automatic into a more comfortable position as he rose.

"Yes, I think it might be. The woman's bag has pictures of a newborn in it, the stroller at the front of the alley is likely hers, and there's a diaper bag in the dumpster. It looks like she was dragged off the main street, her throat was cut, and whomever it was took her baby. If you find the mark on her, we'll know for sure. But right now, it looks like another one."

The man's voice was of medium timbre, but was well-modulated and gave few, if any, outword signs of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather or a football game.

Looking closely, it was hard to tell exactly how old he was. He could have been anywhere from an old 32 to a young 45. The lines and crows feet could have been caused by a life led outdoors, or from the weight of age and experience. From the way he coldly, professionally, processed the scene before him, it was obvious he had done this before. His lack of emotion hinted that he had seen far worse in his time.

"If it is another one, that makes five in four months," said Detective Montoya.

"I appreciate your calling me over and letting me take a look, Miguel."

"Hey, I owe you. Plus, I know you're working for the Martinez family on their missing girl. You respect the police in this town, unlike some private dicks I could name, so another set of eyes looking into this serial will help. Just let me know if you find anything, okay?"

"You know I will, Miguel."

They shook hands and the man moved out of the alley. He walked to a fairly nondescript midsized four-wheel drive SUV and got in the passenger side. After twenty minutes in the hot sun, the air conditioning sent small goosebumps up both arms.

"Well?" his assistant asked. Her voice was light and soft, but still seemed to carry over the sound of the AC running, the engine's idle, and the Top-40 station she had on.

"Yeah, we have another one," he said.

"Damn," she said, and crossed herself. Her long black hair was up in a simple pony tail, out of the way of her face. She wore a blue cotton shirt buttoned all the way up except the top two and a white cotton skirt that reached just passed her knees. Although only driving a midsize SUV, she still looked a little small in the driver's seat; she couldn't have been taller than five foot four or five. Under her clothes hid a gymnast's strong body, however, and her weight was around 125 and extremely well-toned.

"Let's go back to the office, Keiko," he said. She put the truck in gear, waited for an opportunity to merge into traffic, and headed south.

She glanced over at her boss occasionally as she drove them back to their office. His eyes were closed and his right hand was on his brow, rubbing in small circles. She could tell this case was taking a toll on him; he did not like violence toward women or children, it brought back memories for him that he would rather leave buried. But these cases also brought out the best in him, as he would go to great lengths to stop anyone who performed such acts.

It had started for their office four months ago. The Martinez family had hired him to assist the police in looking for their granddaughter and to catch their daughter's killer. She was the third recent mother to be snatched in broad daylight from a busy street, throat cut, left to bleed to death, while the assailant or assailants left with her baby. The children had not been found and no ransom demands had been made. For all the violent, bloody, and public nature of the crime, no one had stepped forward with information on the crimes even though all had taken place in well-traveled areas with many people. No physical evidence had been found at the scene of the crimes to indicate anyone else besides the mothers had been there. The police had admitted they were baffled.

Her boss had been the one to point out each abduction and killing had taken place just prior to a full moon. Full moons were notorious for bringing out the crazies, but these crimes were surgical; it seemed doubtful that some simple loony was wandering the streets. And why wasn't there a ransom asked for the children? Where were the children? Was it some sort of slavery ring? Race didn't seem to be a motivating factor. Of the five women killed and children abducted, two had been African-American, one Hispanic, one Asian, and now one Caucasian. The motivating factor only seemed to be mothers with newborns; not one child was over six months old.

"You okay, Ram?" asked Keiko.

"Ram" Johnson opened his eyes and lowered his hand from his head.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just thinking it through. We need a break in the case. This one has me at a loss. The symbol is the key, but no one at the station and none of my contacts knows anything about it. We have to find someone who knows what that symbol is."

Each mother had a very small spider cut or drawn on her in an out of the way place. It indicated two things:
1. That the killer(s) had waited for the woman to bleed to death from the throat cutting.
2. He or they had taken the time to partially undress and handle the body long enough to cut the small figure in places not easily found unless on the autopsy table.

"What does a spider want with these children," he asked rhetorically for the hundredth time.