The killings ceased. Two weeks had passed and we hadn’t had any new victims that fit the profile of the Lasher. That’s what we called him. We had no leads on the other man, if indeed there was another man. Several agents were saying the killings were over because our handwriting expert believed that Rappaport was ambidextrous.
He based his theory on the fact that Dwight Rappaport was masturbating with his left hand. McGregor believed that was his dominate hand and that’s why he was using it to pleasure himself. From his suicide note, and the entries in his ledger, our handwriting expert concluded that Rappaport wrote with his right hand. Personally, I think Kortney Malone wanted to wrap up the case so that the bureau would look good—look efficient under her regime.
I thought there was a killer still out there, still choosing victims by some strange formula. It was just a matter of time before the killer resurfaced.
In the meantime, I was on my way to the dojo. Kelly was supposed to meet me there. She had a lot of time on her hands since Sterling Wise left. She reminded me that I had promised to train with her when I called her from Universal City. Now was as good a time as any. Nothing was happening with the Lasher.
I parked the Mustang, picked up a bag that had my tools, and the sword that Coco Nimburu had given me. I was going to hang the sword. This would be the first time that I’d even been to my dojo since my students were killed a couple of months earlier. It felt strange. I guess I had been avoiding the place. Lots of memories.
I flipped the light switch upwards and illuminated the dojo. I had already decided I was going to hang the sword right under the life-sized photo of a scene from Enter the Dragon. There were several scenes from that film and others in the dojo. Most were of Bruce Lee in the basement of the castle fighting Hahn’s men. The life-sized one, however, was of Bruce Lee and Bob Wall in their epic showdown on the castle grounds.
I walked over to the stereo and turned it on. Seconds later, I heard Diana Ross and the Supremes’ classic hit “I Hear a Symphony.” I liked listening to Motown when I worked out. My father practically weaned me on the Motown sound while we were in China. I grew to love it as much as he did. They had such great singers and songwriters during their heyday. Smoky Robinson and the Miracles, the Temptations, the Four Tops, Stevie Wonder, and the Jackson Five. Too bad Berry Gordy had to sell, I thought.
I hung the sword and began my workout. Kelly wasn’t going to show for another hour or so. I began with some stretches to warm up my muscles. As I felt my body starting to warm up, I took off my uniform jacket. Underneath I was wearing a black sleeveless shirt with black and white yin and yang symbols on it.
After that, I put on some gloves and went over to the speed bag. I hit it until I felt myself starting to perspire. Next, I skipped rope for about twenty minutes to “Cloud Nine,” “What’s goin’ on,” “Fingertips,” and “Psychedelic Shack.” By the time I finished, I had a good sweat going. It was time for the real workout—the wooden dummy.
The wooden dummy helped perfect timing, and striking distance. It also improved endurance and trapping techniques. As I struck the wooden dummy, I found myself thinking about my former students: Earl Johns, Valerie Ryan, Greg Fisher, and Karen Monroe. They had all been killed in this very room. That was another reason I hadn’t been back. I didn’t want to deal with their passing. As long as I didn’t come to the dojo, they were still very much alive—even if it was only in my mind.
An hour had passed and I was sitting cross-legged with my eyes closed in front of the sword that I’d hung underneath the Bruce Lee mural. I could smell the fragrance of a mixture of musk and jasmine incense that I’d lit. “Memories” by the Temptations was playing. As I sank deeper and deeper into my mind, the music became distant, but I was cognizant of it and everything around me.
Like flashes of light, pieces of the evidence that we had collected and the dead women came to my mind out of sequence. One second I’d see Sarah Lawford. The next I’d see melted ice cream in her kitchen. I could see Dwight Rappaport sitting in his chair masturbating, then hearing the sound of a bullet discharging and blowing his brains out. I could see the blood-splattered walls in Taylor Hoffman’s bedroom. The look on Bernard Rogers’ face when he came to Sarah Lawford’s home. The picture of Alexis Connelly that Detective Thompson sent me came to mind. She seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t place her anywhere. Then there were the receipts. That was the one piece of evidence that we had all overlooked. They all had receipts from the same place.
Suddenly, I felt a presence in my dojo and it wasn’t Kelly. This was a hostile presence. Now there were three more. Four altogether.