. . . and Now the Journey Continues: The Two Serial Killers in Southern California at Long Last Meet. Will It Be Before or After They Complete Their Evil Deeds?

Chapter 1

The daylight receded, the dark of night pushed into the corners of the upgraded neighborhood as if the dark controlled the light; the figure merged into the shadows unseen by passing eyes. The high trees and thick shrubs, planted to provide privacy to the inhabitants of the property, gave him obscurity as he waited and watched. The excitement of the hunt caused his heart to pound making him realize that it was especially necessary for him to be careful not to make a mistake, not now. He lost track of how many months he searched for her as he traveled across numerous miles to their previous home, only to run into her in the least obvious place.

Now he watched and waited for his chance as a van marked Ontario Airport approached and drove into their circular driveway, his plans might have to change. He watched as the driver of the van and another man, a man he knew, carried luggage from the home; too much luggage for only one person, and they placed the luggage into the van. Then a woman and two laughing children emerged from the house and the man leaned back into the house. It was plain to see the security pad with the red light blinking inside the front door. The man punched in numbers on the pad, turned, locked the deadlock with a key, and he too climbed into the van. The van pulled out of the driveway and onto the secluded street and disappeared.

The watcher saw no reason to follow for only an airport vehicle transported customers to the airport, and with the high security at airports, he didn’t want to take a chance that some uneducated underpaid security guard might recognize him. He returned to his car parked a block away, got into the car, started it and headed south toward the garage he called home.

After finding the couple he had been searching for, he considered the next phase of his plan, to find the woman in order to reach his ultimate goal that included her demise as well as her husband’s. During the drive, his thoughts returned to the scene at the large mall in Ontario, where once again he dressed as a stooped old man. It had now been over two weeks since he first saw Katrina after so many long months of searching.

After he saw the book he was looking for displayed in the bookstore window, with his college picture on the front page, he knew they would never recognize him, and he could change out of the uncomfortable old man outfit.

He couldn’t believe his good luck, and it was only luck that he saw her strolling casually through the mall with another woman. Purposely he had walked in front of her in his stooped condition. She ran right into him. He fell to one knee, and he now laughed as he remembered her words. Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you. Are you all right? Let me help you.

Her eyes betrayed her thoughts that she might have hurt the old man, and he said, No, no, I’m all right. I’m not hurt. He had mumbled for he didn’t dare let her hear him speak. From her perspective, he struggled to regain his composure and when their eyes met, he saw a glimmer of recognition, but it passed within a moment and he fought not to shout out, Katrina! I’ve been looking for you for months. Then there for a brief moment she stood in front of him, bent over trying to help. That moment passed as she and her friend entered the large bookstore, and he went on his way appearing to struggle as he walked.

Chapter 2

When he was out of their line of vision, he hurried as best he could to the men’s room to once again change his appearance. He waited patiently for the end stall to become unoccupied and ignored the curious stares from the other men in the rest room, a curious oxymoron, he thought, since obviously no one rested in the room.

Once inside the stall, he pushed the bar across the door lock, securing his privacy. He sighed and placed the heavy backpack on the floor at an angle in front of him. He knew the bag protected a view of objects placed behind it. He then unlatched the wide leather belt cinched tightly around his small waist. He unbuttoned the dirty pants, pushed the zipper down and struggled with the heavily lined jeans to pull them down to his knees. He then sat on the edge of the toilet seat and removed his shoes and placed them on the floor in front of him. One shoe had a three-inch sole the other appeared of normal size. He continued removing the jeans, and rolled them into a tight ball. The soiled jacket came off next and he rolled it in the same manner. He spread the heavy sweatshirt out and placed the jacket and pants in it. Then he folded the shirt, tied the arms securely into a knot and placed them neatly into a plastic bag on top of the odd shaped shoes.

He struggled for a moment to loosen the buckles on the unique leather vest that forced his hunched shoulders into their unnatural stooped position and made him look deformed. As the released buckles freed his body, he stood and stretched, careful not to let his hands extend over the top of the stall. The strange looking vest removed, he had but one more item to discard into the plastic bag.

He pulled the dirty wig and beard off in one motion and stuffed them into the soiled hat. The stack of items placed on his shoes grew higher. He scratched his head and smoothed the short blond hair with his fingers, then applied cologne to his clean-shaven face and across his taut chest. He removed a clean white turtleneck shirt from the bag and pulled it over his head. He smoothed the tight shirt over his muscled body, and tucked it in before fastening the snaps on the snug black leather pants that he wore under the dirty jeans. The short waist length black leather jacket from the opened backpack completed the ensemble except for the shined black shoes he slipped onto his narrow feet over black socks.

He picked the stack of odd clothes, hat, wig and beard, and held them firmly against his chest as he shook the dirty looking backpack and turned it inside out. Instantly it became soft black leather oversized carrying case complete with gold initials on the handle. He placed the shoes and the remaining clothing into the bag and zipped it up. He patted the rear-buttoned pocket on his pants and felt his billfold neatly tucked away. He smiled for he knew his identification matched the initials on the case. The perfect transformation he achieved in mere minutes, he had changed from a dirty hunched old man to a strong young athlete.

He placed fashionable dark glasses over his eyes, picked up the stylish personalized leather case, and after unlocking the door strutted confidently out of the stall. He opened the doorway and looked out onto the extended hallway that took him back to the Ontario Mills Mall. For a moment he felt pinned in for the only way out appeared to be down the hall. He glanced around to see if there were other doors, a way of escape and found none. He forced his fear to subside and thought; you’re getting paranoid! His thoughts remained private for he never voiced his paranoia. The magnificent changeover took less than five minutes.

Chapter 3

He had returned to the bookstore and searched for the two women, and spotted them in the children’s book area. They were laughing yet he thought Katrina appeared nervous.

Did you recognize me Babe? He thought and he slowly edged toward the area where he could hear their words. They appeared to be examining several books.

What about this one? I think the girls would enjoy it, the other woman said.

I don’t know. I can’t make up my mind. The book’s pictures popped up as the woman turned the pages. Oh, that will be all right, let’s get it and leave. I’m getting a splitting headache in this place.

Oh, it’s because of that old man. He turned right in front of you on purpose, the attractive brunette said.

I don’t think so, Katrina said, doubt filling her voice.

He did, I watched him. When he saw you, he stumbled right in front of you. Forget it he was just some dirty beggar. I don’t know why they allow people like him in this mall anyway.

I don’t think they call them beggars anymore, they call them street people or homeless because they have no home.

Wow! Look at that hunk! The brunette’s eyes widened and the man turned his back, but not before he heard Katrina whisper, Carly! Stop it!

Once again he turned to face the women, peered over the top of his dark glasses, however Katrina turned away before she saw the smiles that passed between the two. Katrina went to the front of the store to pay for her purchases and the brunette sauntered by Marshall and handed him a card with her name and phone number on it. He glanced at it and said simply, Thanks, I’ll be calling you, soon Carly.

He had watched them leave and Carly looked back, smiled as she held her thumb to her ear with her little finger stretched out, and mouthed call me. The man winked, and shook his head affirmatively.

Chapter 4

As the women left the store, he went to the True Crime section of the bookstore in search of the book he heard about on television, the purpose for his trip to the mall. A best seller they said and as he approached the area, he saw it prominently displayed at the end of the aisle. There, in living color, red blood dripping from a serrated knife and a hypodermic needle making a cross on a black background; the pictures of two suspected killers in each of the bottom corners of the book. The title read: Unsolved Serial Killings in Southern California, written by investigative reporter James Mitchell.

His picture appeared in the left hand corner with the name Marshall McNutt printed boldly beneath it. In the other corner an older man’s picture and the name Joseph Ishmael in the same bold type beneath it. The three hundred and fifty page hardbound book cost $21.99 and was complete with descriptive pictures inside.

He had glanced through a few pages and saw pictures of Katrina and Jeremy Bishop, Jessica Alexander, Jeremy’s mother and several FBI agents and the car driven to pick up the victims. Farther back in the book the story of Joseph Ishmael, his Fort in Lucerne Valley, and pictures of his alleged victims in living color.

He laughed quietly; the author did not say that McNutt’s crimes were alleged. McNutt admitted his guilt in the heavy box he mailed to his mother with all the evidence hidden within. That box exonerated Jeremy Bishop, Katrina’s husband, of any complicity in the crimes. In fact he read Bishop too was a victim.

He stared at the front cover and realized no one could identify him today from that picture taken so many years ago. He walked confidently to the front of the store, and the clerk rang up the sale, and never looked at him until he recognized the book Marshall McNutt purchased. I read this book. Man scary stuff. He glanced at the man standing in front of the register.

Marshall thought probably the only book you’ve read. The clerk wore several earrings in his ears and one in his eyebrow. Two brightly colored tattoos covered his forearms.

Marshall seemed unable to control his thoughts and said, I’m surprised they let you wear those things in your face while you’re working.

The clerk smiled at Marshall and the smile changed his appearance. Yeah, I was surprised too, but they’re trying to attract the younger crowd and they wear the same things as I do, but most of them have a lot more tattoos. I thought they’d make me wear long sleeve shirts too, go figure. Besides I read a lot and know a lot of the authors so my brain got me the job, not the stuff.

"Do a lot of people comment on your stuff?"

Mostly the older men, they don’t like it so I work the floor mostly and only work the register around break time for the others.

How old are you?

Twenty-three, yeah I know I don’t look it.

No, you don’t. Thanks. He had accepted the sack, turned and walked out of the store.

Guess I’m getting old, I thought he was about sixteen, and that was pushing it. You can tell you’re getting old when clerks and cops look like kids, and he patted the book in the sack under his arm. He walked swiftly to the exit of the mall.

Chapter 5

McNutt remembered how seeing Katrina in the mall had brought his own mother to mind. He had to smile whenever she entered his thoughts. Not because she brought comfort to him, but he remembered the box he mailed to her, and knew her life at that point had changed forever. He still had no compassion for her and he was proud that he had caused her so much grief. He knew she rented her house through an agency and moved away in fear not even telling her closest friends of her planned destination. He had no trouble tracking her down and intended to once again contact her, but that could wait. He enjoyed the trauma his actions caused, enjoyed the fact until that box arrived she knew only of his homosexuality, but never considered that her son, not Jeremy Bishop was the serial killer wanted by the FBI and every Police and Sheriff department in the country. He had outsmarted them all, they were clueless.

He intended to find the other alleged serial killer. He knew enough about the book he carried to know that it identified the daughter of that killer, Julie Ishmael. At least that was her name until her marriage to Detective Mark Markoff. He also knew that she now owned an art studio in San Bernardino, California.

Chapter 6

Marshall McNutt’s thoughts returned to the present as he left the house in Rancho Cucamonga. After watching the couple, his former friend Jeremy Bishop and his wife Katrina, his primary goal had been to find the destination of the family now riding in the Ontario Airport van. He especially wanted to know when they would return to their home. So instead of returning to the place he called home, he headed to the Ontario Airport, a few miles south of his present location.

He parked in the short-term parking lot, and proceeded to change into one of his favorite disguises—that of a mind challenged youth straight from the hicks. He glanced around the parking lot, and when he saw that no one was watching, he approached the terminal. He assumed a stooped position with a clumsy stumbling walk in boots that were several sizes too large.

He studied the times of the nearest departure flights, and sat on the bench out of the way of hurrying passengers where he could watch for the couple. He had beaten them there by mere minutes. They walked by with their two young children, and carried only one small bag each, not nearly the amount of luggage loaded into the airport van.

He watched and waited while the couple stood in a long line at the American Airlines terminal. He remained seated on the bench just inside the airport automatic doors as though waiting to pick up a passenger arriving on one of the numerous airplanes at the busy airport.

He kept his feet planted on the floor in ankle height boots, white socks poking out between his boots and pants. His shoulders sagged forward, and his arms crossed leisurely across his sunken chest, his chin rested nearly on his chest. His coveralls rose two inches above his boots when he stood and a thick imitation faded leather belt cinched his pants tight. He wore a plaid shirt many sizes too large, tucked haphazardly, and buttoned tight under his chin with the cuffs rolled halfway up his arms. Two-inch suspenders across his shoulders looked as though they held him up instead of his pants.

He wore thick glasses that made his eyes appear large, and over the glasses a pair of flip-up dark sunglasses that he kept flipped up, as he continued to watch. People walked swiftly by. Many glanced at him and stifled giggles as they continued on their way. Otherwise he blended into the scenery, and no one paid him particular attention. He carried no luggage, but kept a paper bag securely positioned between his feet.

A Homeland Security guard saw McNutt dressed like a young man enter the airport and sit in front of the large windows. He walked up to Marshall, and spoke quietly. His question, How are you today young man? was met by a huh?

What do you have in that bag, and do you have any I.D?

Another Huh?

What’s in the bag?

Thas my lunch. He held the bag up, and the guard looked inside and saw a wrapped sandwich with what looked like bologna and cheese sticking out the edges on stale bread.

After a few more questions, the guard became convinced that the young man was waiting for his father who would arrive on a later flight that evening. McNutt knew the guard watched him as he kept his eyes on the young family.

She is the only woman I could have loved. I would never have let her go if they hadn’t forced me, he thought.

When the family reached the ticket counter, he suddenly lurched toward the counter and leaned in toward them. One of the young children said, Look at that funny man. Her parents promptly scolded her.

The same guard tapped Marshall on the shoulder, and he turned, and said, I gotta go. I was gonna ask that pretty lady.

The guard took his arm and guided him away from the crowd, Come with me, and I’ll show you where the bathroom is.

Why do they call it a bathroom? I don’t want to take a bath, and I don’t want to rest either. I just gotta go.

The guard hurried him along, and then left him by the door to the restroom as he moved to help other travelers. He wasn’t to see the inept young man again.

In the privacy of an individual stall, Marshall quickly became another tall man with erect posture, shoulder length blond hair, dressed in sport pants, a sport shirt that he wore under the oversized clothing. The bag had been stuffed and held in place by the heavy belt around his slim waist. The dark glasses he wore looked rather ridiculous in the dimly lit room. His change of clothing had been one of the easier costumes. The coveralls, shirt, boots, belt and stockings, including the bologna sandwich he stuffed in the soft sport bag he carried as he left the busy terminal.

He walked confidently to his car, entered it, drove to the gate, paid the attendant for an hour’s parking and left the airport. He drove east approximately thirty miles to Colton on the 10 Freeway. He secluded himself in the rented garage, and since no shower was available, he took a sponge bath, and made plans for the following day since he knew the Art Studio closed earlier. He realized he hadn’t eaten since the previous day, and the bologna sandwich was to remain in the bag for the next time he needed that particular disguise. He needed to eat, so he dressed simply and went out and picked up a taco and burrito at a fast food restaurant. He returned to the garage, consumed his dinner, and with a smile picked up the book and read.

He read only a few pages, became bored, and placed the book on the floor by his cot. He completed his plans for the following day. Always prepared, isn’t that the Boy Scout Motto? He thought. He then stretched out on the cot and slept soundly.

Chapter 7

Detective Mark Markoff parked the unmarked police car at the curb in front of The Art Studio in San Bernardino. He stood at the car door and watched as a customer smiled at him and strutted off down the street.

As he walked into the studio, he asked Julie, its owner and his wife of one year, Who was that?

A customer! Who do you think it was? She answered and smiled broadly at her husband.

Been busy today? He stood in front of the counter and leaned over and gave her a big kiss. She frowned.

Sorry, but hey, no one else is here.

I know, but what if a customer walks in, then at his frown she said. I’m sorry; I’ll never get over the rules of my father.

Your father’s a sick man.

I know that too, and why are we discussing him? Do you want to ruin my day? She laughed and returned his kiss.

That lady in here didn’t buy anything, was she just looking? It was obvious she wasn’t carrying anything when she left the store.

She did buy something. Julie reached under the counter and took out a picture wrapped in brown paper, addressed and ready for mailing.

What’d she buy?

She bought your picture, the one with the dead roses, wilted flowers and petals falling to the table.

You sold my picture? he laughed. I didn’t think anyone would buy that.

I didn’t intend to put it on display. You know why I painted it. She said.

I know I shouldn’t have complained that your roses were too perfect, but I’ll never complain again. How come she bought it?

I put it behind the counter and he saw it and wanted it so I sold it to her.

He? You said he saw it.

No I didn’t. I said she.

"No, you said he."

Prove it! she laughed. "She reminded me of a he."

Why’s that because of her height?

That too. I don’t know her mannerisms just weren’t natural. And that wig looked like a poor imitation of Dolly Parton’s wigs. She had so much pancake makeup on it would have covered a two-day beard, and she lined her eyes with black eyeliner and false eyelashes, and her lipstick looked painted on, and her nail polish, even her toenails matched. Everything was too perfect.

So, I see that all the time. It’s the style now.

I know, but I hate that style.

She had a nice figure though… . Nice legs too.

Mark!

He laughed, Not as nice as yours. He kissed her again.

Oh right, she said. With this big belly.

I think it’s wonderful. That’s our baby growing in there. Their smiles reached their eyes that confirmed their love for one another.

Do you want me to take the package to the post office?

Oh would you? Thanks. She pushed the package over to him and he turned and started toward the door when he stopped. He turned and looked back at Julie.

Did he address this?

Yes, why?

Mark rushed to the telephone and punched in numbers from memory. Julie watched in amazement as he spoke quietly into the telephone, then hung up.

What was that all about?

I called Lieutenant Gray. He’s calling the FBI. Don’t touch that package.

What are you talking about?

That package is addressed to Barbara McNutt.

So?

Barbara McNutt is Marshall McNutt’s mother.

So? She stood with her hands on her well-rounded hips, totally bewildered.

You don’t know who Marshall McNutt is?

The name sounds familiar.

"Julie, Marshall McNutt is the other Serial Killer mentioned in that book."

Julie’s hand covered her mouth. Oh my goodness, I never want to read that book.

I know you don’t but Julie that may have been Marshall McNutt in here dressed like a woman. See if you can draw a picture of him or her or whatever. The lieutenant will be here in about fifteen minutes. Did he touch anything else? The money?

Yes, he handed me the money and he stood right where you’re standing and had his hands on the counter. Mark jerked his hands off the counter.

Why would he come here?

I don’t know. After the earthquake he asked me a lot of questions about Fort Luce and my father.

Earthquake? I didn’t feel any earthquake.

Yes, it really rattled for a few seconds. I thought for a minute he was scared, because he grabbed onto the counter. A couple of pictures fell, but that’s all.

"I told him he should have been at Fort Luce when the Landers quake hit. He wanted to know all about it.

I told him several men were in the mines and never got out. He asked about the mines. Then he asked about the Elder’s Hall. He must have read that book because I didn’t mention that.

Yes, the book tells all about the Elder’s Hall and about the girls your father had killed when he tired of them. She looked stricken when he admitted that he read the popular book about her father and Marshall McNutt.

What would Marshall McNutt want with me?

I don’t think he was interested in you, I think he was interested in your father.

Why?

Because he hasn’t been found and the FBI has both of them on their Ten Most Wanted list.

Chapter 8

Within minutes seven uniformed policemen swarmed the neighborhood around the studio. Two men dressed in suits and ties drove up in separate cars. The first officer into the Art Studio was Mark’s supervisor; the other had to show his identification before they allowed him to enter. He stated his name as Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Wendall Holmes.

Are you Sherlock?

Yes, I’m Sherlock. He looked at the policeman guarding the door and smiled.

It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. the policeman said.

I hope it was all good.

One of the other officers immediately smeared black powder all around the objects that the person touched, and they confiscated the money now on the counter.

Holmes, still smiling turned and searched the numerous paintings and drawings in the attractive art studio. He too had heard a great deal about the studio and about the red headed young woman standing behind the counter. She held her hands clinched tightly in front of her, and they rested on her belly as if she protected the child growing within.

Mark talked with his supervisor, and the FBI Special Agent walked directly to the counter where Julie stood. He held out his hand, and introduced himself. Her hand was very pale and tiny compared to his deep brown mitt. The chill in her hands made him grab both of her hands in his, he wanted to protect her. He noticed her nails were natural, unpainted and well manicured. He was certain she kept them that way herself and never entered one of the numerous nail salons dotting the area.

"Did you paint some of these paintings? He asked.

She smiled, her eyes were bright, but showed some fear and uncertainty, and answered his question.

Yes, I painted many of them.

You know we’ll protect you, that man will never hurt you.

Her eyes searched his before she turned away from him, and said, I was alone when he came in, he could have done anything he wanted, I couldn’t have protected myself.

Special Agent Holmes turned and talked to Julie’s husband Mark. After asking if it was all right to clean the messy counter, Julie took window cleaner and paper towels and cleaned the black powder off of the glass, and the rest of the counter.

The studio telephone rang and Mark grabbed the phone, Julie cringed when he answered without even looking to see who was calling, Hello instead of stating the name: The Art Studio. Mark listened a moment and hung up. They’ve searched all over and no one has seen the person you described. You didn’t see the car he was driving?

I’m not even sure it was a he, but no, I didn’t see a car. He walked away toward the west.

Her hands flew over a blank page as she began to draw and