The Mapmaker

Chapter 1

February 27, 1993, Dallas, TX 6:00 AM

A tear formed in Andrew’s eye as he viewed his masterpiece. Sitting back he rubbed the muscles of his neck with his free hand. The canvas was the skin of Bobby Keller, a thirty-six-year-old bus driver from Grand Prairie, TX. He had chosen Bobby.

No! Andrew said, Bobby’s eyes opened wide at the sudden outburst. Actually Jesus chose him, not me he thought. Bobby was chosen by Jesus Christ himself to be the one to be sacrificed; selected to be the one to be His messenger. Andrew leaned in and added a final touch to the demon banishing message on Bobby’s lower back. Satisfied he laid his tattoo gun in its rack and rolled himself a few feet away to gain a better perspective of Gods work. Bobby held his cuffed hands above his head, holding onto the pulley that once hoisted him up. He stood on a homemade contraption that resembled a potter’s wheel; Andrew’s extended foot rotated it slowly. He felt a tingling in his chest as the Holy Spirit visited him as he stared up at his work. All his energy and passion was going to be rewarded.

 It’s perfect Bobby;, he said, as he stopped him from spinning so they would face each other, Truly a vision of beauty. The tattoo started in the middle of Bobby’s chest and arched upwards towards his left shoulder. It then flowed down, winding around his thigh along the inside of his knee, where it looped back up from his calf. Up his hamstring, it shot across his buttocks and finally into a widespread across Bobby's entire back.

He looked up at Bobby, a shell of the man he had been, broken, resigned to his fate. Weeks ago, he had stopped needing to put a rag in his mouth to keep him quiet or use the pulleys to hoist him onto the pedestal. Though the electronic shock collar around his neck never left.

Do you think the police will be able to follow it? Andrew asked as he leaned back and put his hands behind his head.

You have done as I have asked, Bobby, as Our Lord Jesus Christ has asked. That is why he brought you to me. He told me all I needed to do and when to do it. Now, I will keep my promise to you. Tonight, I will allow you to write letters to those that you wish. Andrew stood and reached out his hand, letting his fingertips touch the tattoo on Bobby’s abdomen, it almost breathed with life.

Just remember the rules: you will not attempt to draw any pictures of where you are, or of me; nor will you in any way, shape or form try to describe me. There is still much work that I must do. I give you my word, they will be delivered.

Bobby nodded his understanding.

Good, Our Lord is pleased with this. Andrew extended his arm to Bobby, who brought his arms down and took Andrew’s hand.

They moved slowly, Bobby had been standing with his arms above his head for nearly six hours. The same position he had been in every night for the last twenty-seven days; enduring six hours of the tattoo needle every night. When he wasn’t being tattooed, he ate, slept, and took care of himself properly, all so the madman with the tattoo gun would not kill his children. Andrew caressed Bobby’s shoulder as they stopped outside the cell. He brought his face closer and closer to the tattoo; the smell of the ink on flesh was intoxicating to him. He didn’t wonder why Jesus wanted him to do this, he knew the answer. One had to be sacrificed to save the children.

*

Bobby followed the routine, he didn’t require any assistance, yet, Andrew was right there, hands on his shoulders. The ten by ten-foot cell with a: bed, night stand, sink, shower without a curtain, commode, a television behind a glass enclosure. Its only source of light came from behind a bulb enclosed in safety glass. It looked like a cheap hotel room with no windows and reeked of antibiotic ointment. To Bobby, it had become a sick kind of home. He saw the yellow legal pad on the bed with a package of Bic pens, and he knew this was his last chance to communicate with his family. He was sacrificing his life for theirs of this he had no doubt.

For the first two weeks that Andrew held him, he had been forced to watch and listen to hours and hours of child pornography videos. He had listened to the hours of rants as Andrew spoke of the demon whom the map would lead. The same demon who the police would be forced to find, interview, and prosecute to end the demon's reign of terror against the children finally. He knew the demon’s name was Charles Whiteman and that the information Andrew had been overwhelming. Hours and hours of video of Whiteman performing depraved acts upon young girls. He had convinced himself that his death to stop the demon named Charles Whiteman was a good trade, a good deal even. He entered his cell and waited for the door to close. He turned around and extended his wrist through the bars so Andrew could remove the handcuffs. He then turned around again and brought his back, so it was almost touching the bars. Andrew warmed the antibiotic ointment in his hand before applying to his back.

Is there anything you would like to eat tomorrow for your last meal? Andrew asked.

Some of Grandma’s fried chicken, stuffing and gravy. I suppose that’s too much to ask. Bobby said as he sat down and picked up the paper and ripped open the package of pens.

Andrew took a few steps back to the work area and started to clean up the equipment, methodically taking everything apart: hoses, the inkwells, the guns, and needles. He wiped down the mirrors surrounding the stand, then his desk. He scrubbed all the floors and then the walls behind the mirrors.

Cleanliness is next to godliness, Andrew said he didn’t repeat the dissertation about the origins of the passage. Which is not in the Bible as most people thought, but was coined by John Wesley and evangelist who founded Methodism. Andrew didn’t say anything else as he left.

Chapter 2

February 27, 1993, Dallas, TX 6:00 PM

Andrew awoke, sitting straight up in his small twin bed. He tried to remember the dream he just had, what had Jesus been saying, but it all escaped him. Shaking his head, he turned his attention to the day’s to-do list that he had prepared before falling asleep.

He had spent the rest of the morning working outside preparing the flower beds in front of the church for the service tomorrow morning. He loved doing God’s work. Finished, he filled the church van with gas and reviewed where he was going to display Bobby, double-checking every detail for the evening. The lastly he drove slowly past the next chosen one’s house to make sure nothing had changed before he had allowed himself to rest.

Now, with his book in hand, he went outside to write in the evening sun. Documenting his work was another task that Jesus required of him. Each day a new chapter with verse after verse for each of his actions and thoughts. It took almost an hour for him to finish writing. He wanted to work faster and harder, yet, his instructions from Jesus were explicit. When he closed the book, he felt the Holy Spirit enter him again, preparing him for the night’s task. Also, it brought him a moment of clarity; where Jesus had shown him the next chosen one, the Holy Spirit revealed to him the next demon to be banished. He took out his drawing pad and started to sketch; pulling from his memories what he could before he would review the tapes and pictures.

But by God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Jesus Christ, he said to himself. This verse had never been truer, he thought, as he dropped to his knees and folded his hands in prayer.

After showering, he picked-up a nice fried chicken dinner from the mom and pop diner down the street for Bobby. It wasn’t grandmas, but it would have to do. Descending the steep stairs with ease, it took a moment in the tunnel for his eyes to adjust to the low lighting, then, he moved quickly, wanting Bobby to enjoy his last meal. He entered the workshop and went immediately to the cell and passed Bobby the meal. He noticed the stack of envelopes on the nightstand as Bobby unwrapped his last supper.

Would you mind if we said a blessing first Bobby? Bobby stopped his unwrapping, and dropped to one knee and bowed his head, Andrew did the same.

Heavenly Father, bless this food that will give Bobby the strength he needs to complete his task before God, before your only begotten son, Jesus Christ, and before the Holy Spirit. Bless Bobby’s wife and children and lessen their suffering in the coming days. Please, Lord, forgive us of our sins. In Jesus name we pray, Amen. Andrew finished and looked up; Bobby started to unwrap the rest of his dinner.

He moved behind one of the mirrors where he had a small cabinet of supplies that he had been commanded to acquire. It had taken several years to fill the cabinet, but he had been careful, just as Jesus Christ told him to be. Tonight, he would give Bobby a bottle of cough syrup with codeine so as to calm him, relax him, and lessen the pain as his physical life came to an end.

While Bobby ate his dinner, Andrew busied himself gathering supplies and loading the van. He double checked his list and took out his notebook again to continue his writing. When it was eleven o’clock, he handed Bobby the bottle of cough syrup.

Bobby, I am going to miss you, Andrew said, as Bobby finished the bottle and put his hands through the opening in the door for his wrist to be secured with handcuffs. With Bobby in front of him, he led him out of the studio and through the tunnel, towards the church. The church had a large garage on the back, which had been added during Prohibition, to allow cars to drive in and either drop off guests to make a purchase. The pastor at the time was an active alcoholic and could find no Biblical reason to support Prohibition. The pastor constructed the tunnel, which ran nearly a city block to the pastoral residence, in case the church was ever raided. The room Andrew now used as his tattoo studio had been the storeroom where they kept all stock of whiskey and gin. At the end of the tunnel was a steep flight of stairs that opened into a storage closet. Inside the closet, there were two doors: one to the garage and the other to the church. They walked into the dark garage; the faint smell of gasoline was in the air as he guided Bobby around the van. The supplies he had loaded were neatly stowed under the rear seats, which included a life-size wooden cross kit to assemble and the rest of his tools.

Securing Bobby in the passenger seat with the seatbelt, he could tell the codeine was starting to work. They drove six miles to the northern edge of Dallas, to the back of a new housing development. The location gave Andrew the space he needed to complete his mission. The back of development had built roads and street lights but no houses as of yet. He stopped and parked the van; the clicking sounds of the cooling engine the only sounds as he unloaded.

Quickly, he assembled the cross, and then drove the metal stand into the ground at the base of the street light. It took all of the strength in his frail body to lift the cross twelve inches to set it on the stand. He set up the ladder in front of the cross and secured the cross to a light pole. When he was satisfied, he retrieved Bobby from the van. The codeine had taken full effect, and he stumbled a bit, as most of Bobby’s weight fell on his shoulder. The five steps it took to carry Bobby to the cross only served to remind Andrew of Jesus carrying the weight of the cross. There would be no nails used for this crucifixion. He climbed the ladder and quickly secured the rope around Bobby’s chest; unlocking the handcuffs freed Bobby’s hands to be stretched out on the cross.

We are almost there, Bobby, Andrews said, his voice was soft. From one of the deep pockets of his robe, he pulled out a large syringe that was almost the size of a turkey baster. He had read that 200CC’s of air injected into the bloodstream would kill a man. The syringe in his hand held five times that amount. Bobby’s body was nearly naked except for the lion cloth. Andrew knew one reason Bobby was chosen was due to the fact he was in good physical shape, and he knew exactly where the vein on Bobby’s arm was. The needle pierced Bobby’s skin and into his vein, a tiny bubble of blood appeared in the syringe. Looking to the heavens, he depressed the plunger, pushing the air into Bobby’s vein. Bobby didn’t flinch as his heart stopped beating.

Thank you, Bobby. He folded his hands together and bowed his head. Dear Lord Jesus Christ, we thank you for the gift of Bobby. We thank you for his ultimate sacrifice to do your work; his sacrifice to save the children. Amen. Lifting his head; he saw Bobby on the cross, the street light shining down upon him like the light of Christ bathing him. He knew he had done well, done what Jesus Christ had commanded him to do.

Chapter 3

February 28th, 1993 Dallas, TX

Detectives Francisco Frank Gutiterra and Rick Olsen were the go-to homicide team when the bizarre call came in at six fifteen in the morning; an early morning jogger had discovered a body bound to a cross. They met at police headquarters before heading to the scene. Gutiterra, the veteran, had been investigating murders for twelve years.

This might be your first real who-dun-it, Gutiterra said. The murders they had handled in the last year they had been partners, were either pretty straight forward, family-type disputes gone bad or street violence. Both types of homicides were very predictable the assailant was almost always someone who knew the victim. The real challenge in these investigations was in the interview, gaining a confession, of which Frank was a master. But every homicide detective lives for a real who-dun-it: piecing together the clues, evidence, playing a hunch. Gutiterra pulled the unmarked car into the development and drove past the existing houses. Two black and whites were parked in front of the street light partially obscured the scene from a block away; they could just see the top the cross.

Damn, Olsen said, getting out of the car he looked the corpse up and down, Helluva lot of tattoo work. Any ID? he asked the uniformed officers.

Nothing, he is just wearing that loin cloth, stated Officer Mike Mathews, as he opened his notepad. Found by Krystal with a K Dwyer, lives up at the front of the development. She was taking her morning jog when she found him. We did a quick canvas and didn’t turn up anything. You want us to start going door to door before everyone starts heading to church?

Yeah, move the squad cars up a few blocks to keep the curious away, Gutiterra said, then turned to look at Olsen, who was studying the corpse, leaning in real close to the corpse. What are you looking at?

Not sure yet, but this tattoo is pretty new, some of it hasn’t even healed; it’s still covered in the anti-bacterial ointment. No obvious cause of death, Olsen said, moving around the cross careful to not disturb anything. What the fuck! he exclaimed as he jumped back into the street, fucker has kiddy porn tattooed on his back. Sick fucking piece of shit. Olsen looked like he might take a swing at the corpse. Who the fuck does something as sick as that. I find the fuck that did that tattoo… Olsen paced around the street shaking his head.

Easy Rick, all that piss, and vinegar isn’t gonna do anyone here any good, Gutiterra interjected, as he walked around the backside on the corpse to see what had gotten Olsen all bent out of shape. Starting at the lower back the winding trail of a tattoo ended and spread out into a mosaic of images all intertwined together, featuring a little girl performing sexual acts on an adult or repulsively, upon her. The little girls face was highly detailed and was turned, facing out, staring at the observer, in every act. Gutiterra moved back to the front and looked at the face of the man on the cross. He ran his finger through his short cropped black hair; at six-foot-five he was looking right into the face of the corpse.

It’s not the same guy. The guy in the tattoos has a receding hairline; this guy has a full head of hair, Gutiterra pointed out to Olsen.

This doesn’t make any sense. Who the fuck would put that on their back? Gutiterra questioned as he lit a cigarette, walking over to join Olsen on the other side of the street.

 Look at that shit, he pointed over at the body, who could he have shown it to? They moved back towards the corpse; Olsen’s head moved around as he followed the tattoo down the chest. And what’s this shit, a coffee cup, a cow, a fucking baseball, and here, look at this, he pointed to a spot on the thigh of the corpse, what is that? Gutiterra leaned down next to Olsen, who was in a catcher’s crouch.

It’s a bridge, Gutiterra said, turn your head. Olsen did, and his face registered the receipt of the information.

Ogling the corpse, Gentlemen? The woman’s voice startled the two detectives.

Sorry, Janie, trying to get a handle on this tattoo, Olsen explained to Janie Shoemaker, one of the county’s assistant Medical Examiners.

No worries, fellas, she casually stated as pulled on latex gloves. The detectives moved back as she stepped forward and verified the obvious. With a clipboard stuck under her left arm as she did a brief examination of the corpse. She stopped on his left arm, Here he was injected with something recently, she pointed at what was a tiny spot of dried blood. She then touched the fingers tried to move them. He’s in full rigor, she said, stopping to make a note on her clipboard. Then, she opened up her duffle bag and set down a small kit that they knew measured the air temperature and humidity.

Time of death about six to eight hours ago. I’ll need to check the overnight temperatures, but that should get you in the ballpark. She stepped back to join the two detectives. The corpse’s skin looked very pale in the morning sunshine, making the grotesque tattoo stand out even more.

Wonder where it leads, she said.

Where what leads? Gutiterra asked as he finished his cigarette.

The tattoo; it’s a map of some kind. You have to follow the symbols. The tattoo over the breast bone is a compass, see here, she pointed with her finger, you would go north until you found something with a baseball, then turn east. She moved closer, showing the detectives where she was looking.

But how the hell would you know where to start? Gutiterra asked, trying to make sense of the symbols, the arrows, the vines, and leaves.

It's linear; you have to follow the trail and the clues to get to the destination. Like an old pirates treasure map, take fifty paces and turn left for twelve paces, then look for four palm trees that make a shape that looks like a ‘W’, then look for a big black ‘X’ on the ground. She laughed at her own joke. Gutiterra and Olsen were looking at the corpse, trying to discern the map.

I don’t get it, Gutiterra muttered.

Let’s let the crime scene guys do their thing. I’ll grab my digital camera. I can take a few pictures, Olsen said, looking for any reason to use his latest toy. Gutiterra stayed on the other side of the street, having another cigarette while Olsen took what seemed like a hundred pictures.

The crime scene team arrived and started to officially photograph and videotape the scene, gathering any and all evidence. Gutiterra and Olsen drove out of the housing development, waving at the uniformed officers doing the initial door-to-door canvas. They stopped at the main road, leaving the development. Gutiterra looked left and started to look right but, suddenly, jerked his head back left; something had caught his eye.

What’s that down there? he pointed to some tall light fixtures that were visible above the trees.

That’s, McCormick Park - a couple of softball fields if I remember right. The thoughts started to connect for Olsen as he spoke; he grabbed his digital camera and started to flip through the pictures on the memory card. Here, we facing north, right above the heart on the map, go west towards the baseball fields. That must be it. Huh?

Baseball, softball. Gutiterra turned left as Olsen worked the tiny viewfinder on the digital camera.

Shit, this isn’t working, I can’t see. Olsen was squinting at the viewfinder against the glare of the early morning sun. We need to find a place to stop so I can download these pictures to my laptop.

Fine, Gutiterra his tone a bit more hostile than he intended, he didn’t like dealing with things that he didn’t know well. He didn’t understand computers at all. Looking around as they drove west he spotted a Dallas Donuts at a small strip mall a few blocks shy of the park. Where the hell did you get a digital camera anyway? I never even heard of one of them before.

Olsen held up the camera, This? My brother-in-law is a photographer for the Morning News. This is his old one, only a one point three megapixels, his new one is a two point four megapixel; makes this one look like a VCR from 1983. Olsen laughed while Gutiterra drove, not understanding a thing that Olsen had said. It is cool shit, Frank. I can take up to a hundred and twenty pictures on this. Then, you’ll see, no waiting for them to get developed, instant results man. Olsen always had the latest and greatest tech gadgets. He was digging around in his laptop bag as Gutiterra pulled into strip mall; pulling into an open space in front of the donut shop on Sunday morning in Dallas was almost like winning the lottery.

You want anything?

Coffee and an apple turnover, Olsen answered. While, he kept digging in his