Chapter 13

Prostitution, it has been said, is a victimless crime.

I disagreed even before I met Janet Conrad but I disagree more fervently now.

Most women — and their male contemporaries — don't enter prostitution of their own free will. I doubt there are many little girls who think "I want to fuck slimy douchebags for money when I grow up."

Most prostitutes are there because they no marketability beyond their orifices. Their young home lives sometimes precluded a formal education — and the societal education they received, at the hands of their step-fathers, uncles, brothers or neighbors — led them to believe their worth revolved primarily in the services they could offer to men.

Drugs are rampant among whores. It is a fact.

Some start using before they become hookers and use prostitution as a means to acquire more drugs. Others become hookers before they start to use. But, just as the supply of money is readily available to whores so is the supply of illegal substances.

The ones who weren't hooked beforehand find themselves slaves to narcotics or opiates eventually. Then the cycle repeats itself.

I've know very few old whores. The life expectancy is short and the job is dangerous. It is doubly dangerous in today's society. Janet Conroy is perhaps fortunate that it was a curable social disease that her wayward husband brought home.

Despite what I know about the lifestyles of prostitutes, I still have a soft spot in my heart for the trench workers in the sex industry. It's why I started to re-exert myself in that side of the business.

I put the wheels in motion even before my short-lived arrest. Over a six-week period during the summer, 9 women were found with their throats cut in various locations in and around our city. The police eventually identified 8 of them as known prostitutes and the 9th was likely someone who either was a one-timer or who was mistaken for a hooker.

For the record, a "one-timer" is a woman — or even a teenage girl — who needs a little cash or excitement and decides to see if she can get some stranger to pay for sex. It happens more often than one would think. But as I mentioned to Janet, all men pay for it eventually.

Pimps — or procurers — are responsible for the safety of their workers. It is a fact in my world. It is also a fact that few take the responsibility seriously. To pimps, whores are a commodity to be used and discarded.

There are always new whores coming down the pipeline. One only has to look at the steady increase in teenage drug and alcohol abuse to understand that.

There are always new johns in the pipeline. One only has to look at the lucrative internet child porn and BDSM industry to understand that.

So pimps understand that the supply of future whores is almost limitless and they understand that to maximize their profits they can't place too many restraints on their clientele. If you want a girl who looks like a 12-year-old, you can find her. Hell, it is likely that you can even find an actual 12-year-old if you know where to look and have the funds to pay for her.

If you like to beat and brand women, you can find it. So long as you understand it will be a costly endeavor.

It is possible to even find a pimp who will sell you someone to use as you act out your fantasy of raping and killing a woman.

This was especially true of the brand of pimp who assumed my father's assets when I divested of them. The same type of person — often the same person — who ran the drug trade ran the pussy trade.

In the weeks before Marcus' untimely departure I had weeded out all but a handful of the pimps who preyed on their workers. The most dangerous was identified and dispatched first and Marcus and I had culled the list pretty well.

The "Back Alley Slasher" had disappeared from the radar. I wasn't certain if I had killed the man himself or if I had killed the man who supplied him with victims. It was equally as likely that the attrition rate among pimps had caused the others to pull back slightly and rethink some of their practices.

The fact that I had retaken a vast majority of the trade meant finding a whore was a little more difficult if you only wanted to injure her. We had women who were willing to play rough if that's what you wanted. But it was in a controlled environment — a strictly controlled environment.

The thing about most serial killers — or so I've read — is that very few of them are interested in getting caught. Sure, the police always say that. Mostly, I believe, they are interested in taunting the populace and the authorities.

They don't want to be caught. They want to be recognized and feared.

I still contend that every man I've killed — or in some instances had killed — deserved it. If the "Back Alley Slasher" or his source got caught up in that, so much the better.

It was raining when I walked out of my office a few days later. Our parking area is private and guarded, so I felt there was little danger in being by myself.

I had rotated a series of bodyguards in the days since Marcus' departure — all men I knew well. I knew most of my people were loyal to me but outside of Mark there was no one who held my absolute trust. I suspected that for many of them their loyalty extended only as far as my checkbook.

A black SUV pulled in front of my car as I exited the garage and blocked me in. Three men in suits and short haircuts got out of the vehicle and assumed positions around my car.

My Jag had bullet-proof glass and a reinforced frame. I would survive a shootout but it was not a shootout these men were after. A fourth man got out of the vehicle holding his wallet in front of him. Neatly stenciled on the ID card were the letters "FBI."

I nodded my head and lowered the window about an inch.

"Special-Agent-in-Charge Meadows would like a word with you," the man said solemnly.

"Let me have your ID number to verify your identities before I agree to anything," I said. The man read off six digits quickly. I asked him to repeat them while I copied them down and then I asked for the numbers of his compatriots.

One call to the local FBI field office verified their identities. Unfortunately.

"You want me to follow you or do I ride with you?" I asked.

"Your choice," he said.

I asked if he would give me a ride back if I rode with him.

"Probably not," he said and he sort of smiled.

"I guess I'll follow," I stated. "We going to the field office or did he want to meet somewhere else?"

In the end, I followed the SUV five blocks to the Federal Building where SAC Tim Meadows and U.S. Attorney Lisa Pellegrini were anxiously awaiting my arrival.

I wondered if I should call my attorney and if I would be spending the foreseeable future in a small, locked cell.

Douglas (please don't call me Doug) Meadows was a likeable man. He reminded me of a male version of Susan Kay.

He wanted to meet with me in his private office and I was allowed in there before he arrived. I noticed an undergraduate degree from Ohio Northern and a law degree from Capital University on his walls. There were pictures of his family displayed prominently on any flat surface in the room.

His desk was somewhat cluttered but I refrained from looking at the files on his desk. Part of it was because I understood I probably was being watched. The other part is because his files were his business, not mine, and it would anger me to no end if I caught someone snooping through my things.

When SAC Meadows came in to the room he didn't appear to view me as a piece of vermin or a sack of garbage that needed dragged to the curb. He smiled warmly and extended a hand in greeting.

His voice held genuine sincerity when he spoke. I was somewhat taken aback.

"It's nice to finally meet you," he told me as he directed me to a chair. "You're a bit taller than what you appear to be in pictures and surveillance videos."

That was usually because Marcus was beside me in those same images and he stood a good 3 inches taller than me, but I didn't mention that.

"Special Agent Meadows, I've heard some very nice things about you," I replied truthfully. "It seems as though you've done a good job with things here."

The corner of his mouth turned upward.

"I must say, you're not making it easy on me," he said. "But this is less about you and me and more about something else that has been handed to me. Do you mind if I cut to the chase, Mr. McPherson?"

I shook my head.

"Please, call me Michael," I answered. "I really don't like to be associated with the other Mr. McPherson."

For a moment something other than charm flashed in his eyes.

"I must say that I'm beginning to wonder about that," he said truthfully. I felt I should reply in kind.

"For a while there, I was beginning to wonder about it, too," I answered. "But I think that has passed. Are we under surveillance here?"

"No," Meadows answered. "I have the ability to record things in this room. Today is more about taking a few minutes to talk. I originally planned for it to be a time for me to chew your ass about what's been going on. But over the last week or so I've decided that isn't going to be necessary."

"I probably still deserve it," I answered.

"Probably," Meadows told me and again the warmth and charm returned to his face. "But then again we all lose our temper from time to time. Most people don't have the ability to wreak havoc like you do but I understand the rationale behind what happened. For the record, I don't agree with what Agent Danvers and her group did any more than I agree with how you responded to it. One event led directly to the other. I'm smart enough to realize that. And I think you're smart enough to realize that what was happening in this city can't continue to happen."

"I am smart enough to realize that — but only just," I replied. "A smarter man would have found a more useful outlet for his anger."

"Oh, what you've done has been useful," Meadows said. "Don't think that it hasn't been. We're pretty sure a serial killer got caught up in your wrath and we're certain some mid-level pimps and drug dealers did. But you understand that we — I — would prefer to handle those problems myself. However, there might be a time in the future when less official ways of dealing with things like that might be necessary."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"I've spoken to Det. Kay and I've reviewed her files on you and your family," he continued. "I believe that should that need arise you will be amenable. However, today is about Marcus Almond, aka Mark Wayland, aka Mark Lewis aka U.S. Army Sgt. Mark Anthony Lewis."

From somewhere in his pile of folders he pulled out one that contained photos of Marcus though varying stages of his life.

"I am aware of Marcus Almond," I stated. "Until a few weeks ago he was employed by my corporation."

Special Agent Meadows nodded.

"Mark A. Lewis killed his commanding officer during a mission in a place I can't tell you," he said. "Sgt. Lewis disappeared after the killing and the Army assumed he took up with some of the lowlifes in the region where the assignment took place. Are you aware of facial recognition software?"

"Marginally," I replied.

"Well, it is extremely slow and tedious," Meadows continued. "It is also not admissible in court. You say Sgt. Lewis is no longer employed in any capacity with your business?"

I bristled.

"Sgt. Lewis was never employed by my company," I said tersely. "Marcus Almond has been employed in one capacity or another for the last 3 years. He tendered his resignation last month. McPherson Group, I'm certain, paid taxes on his salary along with any other deduction that was necessary on the federal and state level. I'm positive we have a copy of his photo ID, his SSN and other qualifying documents on file. It is the way we do business."

Meadows smiled again.

"I know it is and I know you do," he said. "I didn't mean it the way it came out. I have copies of everything you filed with the IRS and they are valid for Marcus Almond — a man who never was. Marcus Almond disappeared from a Detroit suburb almost 30 years ago. He was never found nor was he ever heard from again. It took a great deal of digging before we could locate where Sgt. Lewis acquired his alias. But that is what he did in the Army. He was an intelligence operative. He set up those passports and IDs that would pass scrutiny if necessary for special operations. How did you meet Sgt. Lewis?"

I rolled my eyes.

"I have never met Sgt. Lewis," I said. "Special Agent Meadows, if the technology is not permissible in court it is obviously flawed. I don't believe for a moment that the man I know as Marcus Almond is anyone but who he says he is."

Meadows continued unabated.

"How did you meet Mr. Almond? And how did he come to be in your employee?" he asked.

I thought for a moment.

"We met in back in Baltimore," I said. "I worked as a financial analyst and Mr. Almond was assigned during a trip I had to take to Europe. He spoke several languages fluently and he was very good with numbers. I spoke no languages fluently — perhaps not even English — and it was my first trip for Innovative — that's the company I worked for, Innovative Financial Solutions or IFS. He was sent along to make sure I could get from the airport to the hotel and to make sure I didn't do something monumentally stupid."

Agent Meadows started digging through his file folder. He appeared to come up empty.

"Was sergeant, sorry, Mr. Almond employed by IFS or was he an independent contractor?"

It was a question I didn't have to lie about.

"I don't know," I said after a moment's pause. "I assumed he worked for IFS as a troubleshooter. But he could have just been hired on a case-by-case basis. It never came up in conversation."

"Yet when you took over the McPherson Group — or rather when you organized the McPherson Group — you brought him along," Meadows said. "Why was that?"

"Marcus and I traveled together a lot," I answered. "He spoken French, German, Portuguese and perhaps a few other languages fluently and he had rudimentary skills in maybe a dozen more. He also had what I consider street smarts or common sense. He had never been to college but he was knowledgeable in a wealth of subjects — ranging from international currency exchange to the best brand of perfume to pick up for my mother. I knew he was looking to move forward but in Baltimore the color of his skin was more important to some people than the size of his intellect. When I had to come back to take over things here I asked if he wanted to come with me."