Pop Goes the Weasel

Geoffrey Shafer might be just the beginning of our problems.”
    “All four of them are murderers?” I asked.
    Andrew Jones didn’t answer; he didn’t have to.

Chapter 89
    “WE THINK that the ‘game’ originated in Bangkok, where three of the four players were posted in ’ninety-one. The fourth, Highsmith, was a mentor to George Bayer, who is Famine in the Four Horsemen. Highsmith has always worked out of London.”
    “Tell me about Highsmith,” I said.
    “As I said, he’s always been in the main office, London. He was a high-level analyst, then he actually ran several agents. He’s a very bright chap, well thought of.”
    “He claimed that the Four Horsemen was just a harmless fantasy game.”
    “It may be for him, Alex. He may be telling the truth. He’s been in a wheelchair since ’eighty-five. Automobile accident. His wife had just left him, and he cracked. He’s an enormous fellow, about three hundred pounds. I doubt that he’s getting about and murdering young women in the scuffier neighborhoods of London. That’s what you believe Shafer was doing here in Washington? The Jane Doe murders?”
    Jones was right, and I didn’t deny it. “We know he was involved in several murders, and I think we were close to catching him. He was picking up his victims in a gypsy taxicab. We found the cab. Yes, we knew about him, Andrew.”
    Jones tented his thick fingers, pursed his lips. “You think Shafer knew how close you and Detective Hampton were getting?”
    “He may have known, but there was also a lot of pressure on him. He made some mistakes that led us to an apartment he rented.”
    Jones nodded. He seemed to know a great deal about Shafer, which told me he’d been watching him, too. Had he been watching me as well?
    “How do you think the other game players might react to Shafer’s being so out of control?” I asked.
    “I’m fairly sure they felt threatened. Who wouldn’t? He was a risk to all of them. He still is.” Jones continued, “So, we have Shafer, who’s probably been committing murders here in Washington, acting out his fantasies in real life. And Highsmith, who probably couldn’t do that, but could be a sort of controller. Then there’s a man named James Whitehead, in Jamaica, but there have been no murders of the Jane Doe variety on that island or any other one nearby. We’ve checked thoroughly. And there’s George Bayer in the Far East.”
    “What about Bayer? I assume you’ve investigated him, too.”
    “Of course. There’s nothing specific in his record, but there was an incident, a possible connection, to follow up on. Last year in Bangkok, two girls who worked in a strip bar in Pat Pong disappeared. They just vanished into the noisy, teeming streets. The girls were sixteen and eighteen, respectively, bar dancers and prostitutes. Alex, they were found nailed together in the missionary position, wearing only garters and stockings. Even in jolly old Bangkok, that caused quite a stir. Sound distressingly similar to the two girls who were killed in Eckington?”
    I nodded. “So we have at least two unsolved Jane Does in Bangkok. Has anyone actually questioned Bayer?”
    “At this point, no, but he’s being watched. Remember the politics, the fear of a scandal that I mentioned earlier? There’s an ongoing investigation of Bayer and the others, but to some extent our hands are tied.”
    “ My hands aren’t tied,” I said to Jones. “That’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it? What you expected? It’s why you met with me tonight?”
    Jones turned very serious. “It’s how the world works, I’m afraid. Let’s do this together from here on. If you help us ? I promise to do what I can to find out what happened to Christine Johnson.”

Chapter 90
    THE TRIAL RESUMED sooner than expected — the following Wednesday, in fact. There was speculation in the press about how serious Shafer’s self-inflicted wounds had been. None of the public’s perverse interest in the case seemed to have been lost.
    It seemed impossible to predict the outcome, a fact of life I tried not to let get me down too much. Both Shafer and I were present in the packed courtroom that first morning back. Shafer looked pale, weak — an object of sympathy, perhaps. I certainly couldn’t take my eyes off him.
    Things got stranger and stranger. At least they did for me. Sergeant Walter Jamieson was called that morning. Jamieson had been at the Police Academy when I attended it. He had