Storytellers
Chapter 20: Murder Most Foul

Copyright© 2012 by Paris Waterman

Time Travel Sci-Fi Sex Story: Chapter 20: Murder Most Foul - Its 1947, war veteran, Roy Shannon encounters an Alien in New Mexico. As a reward for helping him escape the alien provides Roy with what he calls the story of a lifetime.It takes us back to the origins of baseball; introduces a man who can merge with whomever he pleases; and along the way becomes the most terrifying serial killer in history.

Caution: This Time Travel Sci-Fi Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Romantic   Lesbian   Heterosexual   Science Fiction   Time Travel   Historical   Incest   Sister   First   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Pregnancy   Caution   Violence   Prostitution  

"After boarding the RMS Etruria for my return to New York, I made it a point to avoid Mr. Tumblety, not wanting to wake the beast that lay in waiting should I dare return to his body. My wife thought I had malaria because of how I would sweat through my nightclothes and even the sheets each night. I had no such thing. What I had wuz a fear of being swept up and into Tumblety's being and going on a killing spree while on board the sailing vessel. Surely the authorities would have caught us and sent us back to England to be hung."

"But, Bill," I said interrupting him. "You had to have known how easily it would be to elude the authorities by returning to Harbidge at the earliest opportunity."

"Yes, yes, I knew it, but had never attempted it under stress. To my way of thinking, any number of things might have gone wrong. Once ashore, I put emergency departures from one body to another on extremely short notice to the test. I culminated the testing by having this one poor bastard leap in front of a locomotive in Pennsylvania, leaving him for a tramp sleeping off a drunk a split second before the train cut him to pieces.

"Thus assured that an escape route lay before me in almost any situation, I relaxed and resumed an almost reckless body shifting that took me too many interesting places.

"Although I visited with several dozen personalities over the next couple years, it wasn't until late April, 1891 that I found another blood hungry wretch with whom I took another life.

"I left Bill Harbidge back in Philadelphia taking care of the hotel while his brother took a needed vacation with his recently acquired wife Mandy. I rode into New York City with a train conductor, left him for a fashionably dressed woman and deserted her for a heavyset man with whom I found myself on the Bowery.

It was in one of seedy bars that I happened on one, John Phelps. Oh, he was a match for murderous deeds all right. I merged with Mr. Phelps, and traipsed from bar to bar looking for the right prospect.

Miss Carrie Brown found us soon enough, and arrangements followed. Phelps promised her fifty cents for a fuck if she provided the room. The fortyish Miss Brown quickly agreed and we wound up at the East River Hotel early that evening.

Phelps wuz a weird fuck all in all. He took her twice. Once in the cunt, once in the ass, before we stabbed her to death and mutilated her body. It wuz maybe three in the morning when we carried her down the stairs and tossed her into a dumpster in back of the hotel.

Not wanting to chance being apprehended while in Phelps, I merged with a Chinaman named Lee, who lived several doors from the hotel. He wuz half drunk and a happy son-of-a-bitch. We fucked his woman three times before he fell asleep.

Not having anything to do the next day, I decided to stay with Lee and watch as things developed with Miss Carrie Brown.

They found the body shortly before ten the next morning. Newspapers were quick to report the murder as proof of the alleged arrival of Jack the Ripper in America. I couldn't help but agree with them.

And that news appeared to whet the appetite of one Thomas Byrnes; a Chief Inspector of New York's finest.

I returned to Philadelphia and Bill Harbidge, but followed the events of the Brown murder with interest. As the murder of the middle-aged prostitute soon became one of the most publicized in the city's history, pressure was on Byrnes to solve the murder as quickly as possible.

Amid mammoth publicity, Chief Inspector Byrnes accused an Algerian, Ameer Ben Ali (nicknamed Frenchy) of the crime. However, evidence against Ben Ali was largely circumstantial and based primarily on the claim that unidentified bloodstains had been found leading from the room where Brown was killed into the room he was staying in. I knew this to be utter nonsense as Phelps had wrapped the body in two sheets before carrying it down the stairs to the dumpster. We had left little if any bloodstains behind, and I knew it.

So did several reporters who had been at the scene of the crime. They wrote that they had seen no sign of bloodshed at the scene and they had been there when Chief Inspector Byrnes arrived.

Ben Ali was convicted despite the evidence against him being doubtful, political pressure and a compulsion to solve cases, led to Ameer Ben Ali's conviction of second degree murder. For despite his pleas of innocence, there wuz testimony from doctors that although not supported by medical tests of the time, swayed the jury who gave him life imprisonment.

This Byrnes annoyed me; of course I wuz aware that crime wasn't just for the professional criminals back then. I knew that the New York and Philadelphia Police departments served their respective city's corrupt government by acting as a money-making arm for their cities. Patrolmen collected graft from brothels, bar halls and gamblers. The police pocketed some of the loot, but most of the money made its way into Tammany Hall's coffers. [1]

The press occasionally demanded that the city to clean up the police force, but the era of the flagrant kickbacks and corruption only declined in 1894 when Theodore Roosevelt, the new police commissioner, began a dramatic and well-publicized clean up of the department.[2]

Normally I would have left the whole mess alone and gone my way, but Byrnes pissed me off. More so when I learned that he had written a self serving book, Professional Criminals of America built up of photographs of criminals, which he called the "Rogues Gallery." [3]

Byrnes had gained renown through solving the Manhattan Savings Bank robbery of 1878. He became Detective Bureau Chief in 1880. As inspector, Byrnes quickly won national distinction. He increased the detective force from twenty-eight to forty men. In four years it made 3,300 arrests. That's a hell-of-a-lot of arrests for forty men. It occurred to me that the high rate of convictions had to be flawed. Many of his cases were fabrications, involving false testimony and planted evidence. Byrnes own book indicted him in that regard. There wuz drawings and photographs of police interrogations where the suspect wuz being beaten into confessing as if it were the normal way of getting a confession. Byrnes' brutal questioning of suspected criminals popularized the term "the third degree", which was apparently coined by Byrnes.

All right, I admit it wuz the way most were obtained, but that didn't make it right.

By 1882, he had obtained immense power. In 1886, Byrnes instituted the "Mulberry Street Morning Parade" of arrested suspects before the assembled detectives in the hope they would recognize suspects and link them to more crimes.

I set out to destroy him. I took some time to merge with the leading members of a group of reformers, left certain evidential ideas with them and before you could shout, "Look out, it's Jack the Ripper!" they found proof of police misconduct in the investigation and evidence to support Ben Ali's innocence. The group was able to prove the NYPD had made no attempt to find the missing key to the locked room or the unidentified man who witnesses claimed Carrie Brown had last been seen with the night before.

But Justice moves slowly when someone has been convicted, even when it's known to be a wrongful conviction.

Anyways, after killing Miss Carrie Brown, I wuz a good boy for a time, and for the record, I had nothing to do with the Lizzie Borden and her ax murders; And by the by; she done it, jury verdict to the contrary. There wuz so much to do about whether she done it or not that I paid her a visit; spent two days with her, inside her head. She wuz a fascinating personality, very likable, but it wuz her took the ax to her parents. She thought about it on a daily basis and relish reliving the event over and over. She really had a hatred of both of them.

In 1893, of course, Herman Mudgett was killing all them people during the Chicago World's Fair. But as I told you earlier, that wasn't me either.


"Bill, I know you found Napoleon Lajoie in '94, was there anything else you'd care to have on the record around that time?

"Nope, like I said, I wuz looking for the perfect ballplayer for a couple years; when I come across Nappy, I knew he wuz the one and dropped everything to help him develop."

"So you didn't change with anyone during all that time?'

"Course I did! I already tole you so! What the fuck's the matter with your ears?"

I had a sudden flash, recalling his telling me about venturing into Ty Cobb and the unenviable result. "Um, I'm sorry, you did at that, didn't you?"

"The truth wuz that after a time I got a little bored with Nappy's effortless style of play. Everything came so easy to him. I may have mentioned his early years with the Phillies and the magnificent hitters he wuz surrounded by. Anyway, he wuz firmly established as their second baseman and on his way to playing 147 games but only hitting .324 with a fair Phillies team in '98 when his, or I should say, my attention wuz diverted by the sinking of the Maine off the coast of Cuba.

"Suddenly, I had this lust in me wanting to get on down there and do my share in the war against Spain.

I left Lajoie to head for Cuba. Maybe that's why he only batted .324. Maybe I'm just strokin' my ego, God knows, it's a big one."

He laughed, and there was a humorous glint in his eye as he resumed speaking. "I kept moving from one soldier to the next, before it occurred to me that if I wuz going to war I might as well go as a leader, and so when I happen to be in the presence of Teddy Roosevelt, I merged with him, not knowing what lay ahead, or how impractical the man wuz going to be. I nearly bought it that day we charged the bloody hill."

"You're telling me you were at San Juan Hill that day?"

"I certainly wuz, Jack, and that's a fact! It wuz the 1st of July; Hearst had the Maine sunk in February, and things flared up from there. War was inevitable."

"Hold on a minute, let me take some notes on this," I said.

When I indicated I was ready, Bill began again. "Roosevelt immediately quit his position and helped form a regiment of volunteers. The 'Rough Riders' enlisted cowboys and college men led by Roosevelt under the command of Leonard Wood. They arrived in Cuba in time to take part in the Battle of San Juan Hill. America's conflict with Spain was later described as a 'splendid little war' and for Theodore Roosevelt it certainly was. His combat experience consisted of one week's campaign with one day of hard fighting. 'The charge itself was great fun' he declared, and 'Oh, but we had a bully fight.'

"It might have been Bully for Teddy, but it wuz sheer terror for me. The man had no regard for his life at all. He wuz on horseback, and it would have been damn near impossible for me to switch with another rider if he had been mortally wounded, or killed on the spot. But let me tell it from the beginning.

We wuz massed at the bottom of the hill. The Spanish wuz entrenched in a dominate position at the top. Behind us, advancing Spanish troops had clogged the roads preventing an escape. It seemed we wuz stymied - unwilling to move forward and unable to retreat. Suddenly, Theodore Roosevelt emerged from the surrounding woods on horseback and began rallying the men to charge."

"Finding soldiers lying in his way, Teddy shouted, ''if you don't wish to go forward, let my men pass, please.' And mounted high on his horse, he/we charged the rifle-pits at a gallop and quite alone for several nightmarish seconds. Then the men began to cheer, other horsemen soon joined in and with bullets whistling past our ears, we kept galloping forward.

"Although I wuz scared shitless, when our men started to follow us, I wuz taken with how few in number they seemed. I remember thinking, someone's made a fuckin' terrible mistake and that these men wuz following a madman into hell. It wuz the folly of the fuckin' charge that I had in my mind as we charged ahead more than anything else.

They had no glittering bayonets; they were not massed in regular array. There wuz a few men in advance, bunched together, and creeping up a steep, sunny hill, the top of which roared and flashed with flame. The men held their guns pressed across their breasts and stepped heavily as they climbed. Behind these first few, spreading out like a fan, wuz single lines of men, slipping and scrambling in the smooth grass, moving forward with difficulty, as though they wuz wading waist high through water, moving slowly, carefully, with strenuous effort. It wuz much more wonderful than any swinging charge could have been. They walked to greet death at every step, many of them, as they advanced, sinking suddenly or pitching forward and disappearing in the high grass, but the others' waded on, stubbornly, forming a thin blue line that kept creeping higher and higher up the hill. It wuz as inevitable as the rising tide. It wuz a miracle of self-sacrifice, a triumph of bulldog courage, which one watched breathless with wonder. The fire of the Spanish riflemen, who still stuck bravely to their posts, doubled and trebled in fierceness, the crests of the hills crackled and rippled with waves of tiny flame. But the blue line crept steadily up and on, and then, near the top, the broken fragments gathered together with a sudden burst of speed, the Spaniards appeared for a moment outlined against the sky and poised for instant flight, fired a last volley and fled before the swift-moving wave that leaped and sprang up after them.

 
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