Four Blind Mice Read online

  Copyright © 2002 by James Patterson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: November 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-446-40934-6

  The Little, Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue: The “Bluelady” Murders

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Part One: The Last Case

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part Two: Jamilla

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Part Three: The Foot Soldier

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Part Four: Exit Wounds

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Part Five: Four Blind Mice

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Epilogue: The Garter

  Chapter 115

  About the Author

  Also by James Patterson:

  The Thomas Berryman Number

  Season of the Machete

  See How They Run

  The Midnight Club

  Along Came a Spider

  Kiss the Girls

  Hide & Seek

  Jack & Jill

  Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge)

  Cat & Mouse

  When the Wind Blows

  Pop Goes the Weasel

  Black Friday

  Cradle and All

  Roses Are Red

  1st to Die

  Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas

  Violets Are Blue

  2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)

  The Beach House (with Peter de Jonge)

  Here’s to Manhattan College on her sesquicentennial anniversary. Go Jaspers!

  This one is also for Mary Jordan, who holds everything together, and I mean everything.

  Did you ever see

  such a sight in your life . . .

  Prologue

  THE “BLUELADY” MURDERS

  Chapter 1

  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY for Cumberland County, North Carolina, Marc Sherman, pushed the old wooden captain’s chair away from the prosecution table, and it made a harsh, scraping eeek in the nearly silent courtroom.

  Then Sherman rose and slowly approached the jury box, where nine women and three men — six white, six African American — waited with anticipation to hear what he had to say. They liked Sherman. He knew that, even expected it. He also knew that he had already won this dramatic murder case, even without the stirring summation he was about to give.

  But he was going to give this closing anyway. He felt the need to see Sergeant Ellis Cooper held accountable for his crimes. The soldier had committed the most heinous and cowardly murders in the history of Cumberland County, North Carolina. The so-called Bluelady Murders. The people in this county expected Sherman to punish Ellis Cooper, who happened to be a black man, and he wouldn’t disappoint them.

  The district attorney began: “I have been doing this for a while — seventeen years, to be exact. In all that time, I have never encountered murders such as those committed in December last, by the defendant, Sergeant Ellis Cooper. What began as a jealous rage aimed at one victim, Tanya Jackson, spilled over into the shameless massacre of three women. All were wives, all were mothers. Together these women had eleven children and, of course, three grieving husbands and countless other family members, neighbors, and dear friends.

  “The fateful night was a Friday, ‘ladies’ night’ for Tanya Jackson, Barbara Green, and Maureen Bruno. While their husbands enjoyed their usual card night at Fort Bragg, the wives got together for some personal talk, some laughter, and the treasured companionship of one another. Tanya, Barbara, and Maureen were great friends, you understand. This Friday night get-together took place at the home of the Jacksons, where Tanya and Abraham were raising their four children.

  “Around ten o’clock, after consuming at least half a dozen shots of alcohol at the base, Sergeant Cooper went to the Jackson house. As you have heard in sworn testimony, he was seen outside the front door by two neighbors. He was yelling for Mrs. Jackson to come out.

  “Then Sergeant Cooper barged into the house. Using an RTAK survival knife, a lightweight weapon favored by United States Army Special Forces, he attacked the woman who had spurned his advances. He killed Tanya Jackson instantly with a single knife thrust.

  “Sergeant Ellis Cooper then turned the knife on thirty-one-year-old Barbara Green. And finally, on Maureen Bruno, who nearly made it out of the slaughterhouse but was caught by Cooper at the front door. All three women were kill
ed with thrusts delivered by a powerful male, who has taught hand-to-hand fighting techniques at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center, headquarters for the Army Special Forces.

  “The survival knife has been identified as Sergeant Cooper’s personal property, a deadly weapon he had kept since the early 1970s, when he left Vietnam. Sergeant Cooper’s fingerprints were all over the knife.

  “His prints were also found on the clothing of Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Green. DNA from particles of skin found under the nails of Mrs. Jackson were matched to Sergeant Cooper. Strands of his hair were found at the murder scene. The murder weapon itself was discovered hidden in the attic of Cooper’s house. So were pathetic ‘love letters’ he had written to Tanya Jackson — returned unopened.

  “You have seen unspeakable photographs of what Sergeant Cooper did to the three women. Once they were dead, he painted the women’s faces with ghoulish-looking blue paint. He painted their chests and stomachs. It is gruesome and twisted. As I said, the worst murders I have ever encountered. You know that there can be only one verdict. That verdict is guilty! Put this monster down!”

  Suddenly, Sergeant Ellis Cooper rose from his seat at the defendant’s table. The courtroom audience gasped. He was six feet four and powerfully built. At age fifty-five, his waist was still thirty-two inches, just as it had been when he enlisted in the army at eighteen. He was wearing his dress greens, and the medals on his chest included a Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service Cross, and a Silver Star. He looked impressive, even under the circumstances of the murder trial, and then he spoke in a clear, booming voice.

  “I didn’t kill Tanya Jackson, or any of those poor women. I never went inside the house that night. I didn’t paint any bodies blue. I’ve never killed anyone, except for my country. I didn’t kill those women. I’m innocent! I’m a war hero, for God’s sake!”

  Sergeant Cooper hurdled the wooden gate at the front of the courtroom. He was on Marc Sherman in seconds, knocking him to the floor, punching him in the face and chest.

  “You liar, liar!” Cooper shouted. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

  When the courtroom marshals finally pulled Cooper away, the prosecutor’s shirt and jacket were torn, his face bloodied.

  Marc Sherman struggled to his feet and then he turned back to the jury. “Need I say more? The verdict is guilty. Put this monster down.”

  Chapter 2

  THE REAL KILLERS had taken a small risk by attending the final day of the trial in North Carolina. They wanted to see the end of this, couldn’t miss it.

  Thomas Starkey was the team leader, and the former Army Ranger colonel still looked the part, walked the walk, and talked the talk.

  Brownley Harris was his number two, and he remained deferential to Colonel Starkey, just as it had been in Vietnam, just as it would always be until the day one or — more likely — both of them died.

  Warren Griffin was still “the kid,” which seemed marginally funny, since he was forty-nine years old now.

  The jury had come in with a verdict of guilty less than two and a half hours after they were sent out to deliberate. Sergeant Ellis Cooper was going to be executed for murder by the state of North Carolina.

  The district attorney had done a brilliant job — of convicting the wrong man.

  The three killers piled into a dark blue Suburban parked on one of the narrow side streets near the courthouse.

  Thomas Starkey started up the big car. “Anybody hungry?” he asked.

  “Thirsty,” said Harris.

  “Horny,” said Griffin, and snorted out one of his goofy laughs.

  “Let’s get something to eat and drink — then maybe we’ll get into some trouble with the ladies. What do you say? To celebrate our great victory today. To us!” shouted Colonel Starkey as he drove down the street away from the Courthouse. “To the Three Blind Mice.”

  Part One

  THE LAST CASE

  Chapter 3

  I CAME DOWN to breakfast about seven that morning and joined Nana and the kids around the kitchen table. With Little Alex starting to walk, things were back in “lockdown” mode in the kitchen. Plastic safety locks, latches, and outlet caps were everywhere. The sounds of kid chatter, spoons clattering in cereal bowls, and Damon coaching his baby brother in the art of blowing raspberries, made the kitchen almost as noisy as a precinct house on a Saturday night.

  The kids were eating some kind of puffed-up chocolate-flavored Oreos cereal and Hershey’s chocolate milk. Just the thought of all that chocolate at seven in the morning made me shiver. Nana and I had eggs over easy and twelve-grain toast.

  “Now isn’t this nice,” I said as I sat down to my coffee and eggs. “I’m not even going to spoil it by commenting on the chocoholic breakfast two of my precious children are eating for their morning’s nourishment.”

  “You just did comment,” said Jannie, never at a loss.

  I winked at her. She couldn’t spoil my mood today. The killer known as the Mastermind had been captured and was now spending his days at a maximum-security prison in Colorado. My twelve-year-old, Damon, continued to blossom — as a student as well as a singer with the Washington Boys’ Choir. Jannie had taken up oil painting, and she was keeping a journal that contained some pretty good scribbling, and cartoons, for a girl her age. Little Alex’s personality was beginning to emerge — he was a sweet boy, just starting to walk at thirteen months.

  I had met a woman detective recently, Jamilla Hughes, and I wanted to spend more time with her. The problem was that she lived in California and I lived in D.C. Not insurmountable, I figured.

  I would have some time to find out about Jamilla and me. Today was the day I planned to meet with Chief of Detectives George Pittman and resign from the D.C. police. After I resigned, I planned to take a couple of months off.

  Then I might go into private practice as a psychologist, or possibly hook up with the FBI. The Bureau had made me an offer that was flattering as well as intriguing.

  There was a loud rap at the kitchen door. Then it opened. John Sampson was standing there. He knew what I was planning to do today, and I figured he’d come by to show me some support.

  Sometimes I am so gullible, it makes me a little sick.

  Chapter 4

  “HELLO, UNCLE JOHN,” Damon and Jannie chorused, and then grinned like the little fools they can be when in the presence of greatness, which is how they feel about John Sampson.

  He went to the refrigerator and examined Jannie’s latest artwork. She was trying to copy characters from a new cartoonist, Aaron McGurder, formerly of the University of Maryland and now syndicated. Huey and Riley Freeman, Caesar, and Jazmine DuBois were all taped on the fridge.

  “You want some eggs, John? I can make some scrambled with cheddar, way you like them,” Nana said, and she was already up at her place. She would do anything for Sampson. It had been that way since he was ten and we first became friends. Sampson is like another son to her. His parents were in jail much of the time he was growing up, and Nana raised him as much as anybody did.

  “Oh, no, no,” he said, and quickly motioned for her to sit back down — but when she moved to the stove, he said, “Yeah, scrambled, Nana. Rye toast be nice. I’m starved away to nothing, and nobody does breakfast like you do.”

  “You know that’s the truth,” she cackled, and turned up the burners. “You’re lucky I’m an old-school lady. You’re all lucky.”

  “We know it, Nana.” Sampson smiled. He turned to the kids. “I need to talk to your father.”

  “He’s retiring today,” Jannie said.

  “So I’ve heard,” said Sampson. “It’s all over the streets, front page of the Post, probably on the Today show this morning.”

  “You heard your uncle John,” I told the kids. “Now, scoot. I love you. Scat!”

  Jannie and Damon rolled their eyes and gave us looks, but they got up from the table, gathered their books into backpacks, and started out the door to the Sojourner Truth School, which is a
bout a five-block walk from our house on Fifth Street.

  “Don’t even think about going out that door like that. Kisses,” I said.

  They came over and dutifully kissed Nana and me. Then they kissed Sampson. I really don’t care what goes on in this cool, unsentimental postmodern world, but that’s how we do it in our house. Bin Laden probably never got kissed enough when he was a kid.

  “I have a problem,” Sampson said as soon as the kids left.

  “Am I supposed to hear this?” Nana asked from the stove.

  “Of course you are,” John said to her. “Nana, Alex, I’ve told you both about a good friend of mine from my army days. His name is Ellis Cooper and he’s still in the army after all these years. At least, he was. He was found guilty of murdering three women off base. I had no idea about any of it until friends started to call. He’d been embarrassed to tell me himself. Didn’t want me to know. He only has about three weeks to the execution, Alex.”

  I stared into Sampson’s eyes. I could see sadness and distress there, even more than usual. “What do you want, John?”

  “Come down to North Carolina with me. Talk to Cooper. He’s not a murderer. I know this man almost as well as I know you. Ellis Cooper didn’t kill anybody.”

  “You know you have to go down there with John,” Nana said. “Make this your last case. You have to promise me that.”

  I promised.

  Chapter 5

  SAMPSON AND I were on I-95 by eleven o’clock that morning, our car wedged between caravans of speeding, gear-grinding, smoke-spewing tractor-trailers. The ride was a good excuse for us to catch up, though. We’d both been busy for a month or so, but we always got back together for long talks. It had been that way since we were kids growing up in D.C. Actually, the only time we’d been separated was when Sampson served two tours in Southeast Asia and I was at Georgetown, then Johns Hopkins.

  “Tell me about this army friend of yours,” I said. I was driving, and Sampson had the passenger seat as far back as it would go. His knees were up, touching the dash. He almost looked comfortable somehow.

  “Cooper was already a sergeant back when I met him, and I think he knew he always would be. He was all right with it, liked the army. He and I were both at Bragg together. Cooper was a drill sergeant at the time. One time he kept me on post for four straight weekends.”