Shadow Stalker Read online

  THE JAMES WATSON CHRONICLES

  BOOK ONE

  SHADOW STALKER

  By

  D. W. COOPERSTEIN

  Copyright © 2019 Dan Cooperstein

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic storage and retrieval, without permission in writing from the author. This book contains adult material.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rose Burtchell and Jim Stockwell, friends of mine, stood in line outside the local rail station waiting for coffee. They were going to work. Rose was an administrative secretary for a large law firm. She was looking forward to her daughter Jenny’s wedding and helped Jenny with every detail. Jim Stockwell was an investment banker. In two short months, he’d retire from his job of nearly forty years. Rose and Jim stepped into the crowded E train heading for Canal Street. The lights in the subway car flickered as the whine of the train increased. They were moving fast now. Rose sat quietly, probably thinking about Jenny’s upcoming wedding and what it would be like to see relatives she hadn’t seen in ages. Jim had big plans for his retirement. His wife Sally told me that he wanted to spend more time traveling with his family.

  The powerful explosion came without warning. The inside of the train turned black, filling with heavy smoke. It was my day off and I was there at the T7 bomb site with other law enforcement personnel, witnessing firsthand the deadly carnage. The screams of people trapped inside the twisted, blood-stained metal wreckage were gut-wrenching. Their cries for help penetrated the length of the tunnel. I watched as police and firefighters rushed to the scene, running through tunnels with equipment in hand. The crying and crippled were removed from the smoky wreckage. In the street above, sirens screamed as ambulances rushed to the dying and injured. There was little I could do but watch as police officers and medical personnel assisted the wounded, trying to get everyone out of that tangled mess of metal debris. I cried when I saw the dead bodies of Rose and Jim being pulled from the wreckage. Chaos was everywhere, just like the previous six subway bombings.

  The terrorist known as the Shadow Stalker was the best the Bureau had ever seen. This elusive phantom killer was nicknamed The Shadow because he was never observed committing any crime. His ubiquitous presence filled the city with great fear, and to the thousands of people who rode the subway trains every day, he was known as the Shadow of Death.

  Given all the monitoring devices and surveillance cameras deployed throughout the city, you might think this terrorist would slip up, but he successfully eluded every attempt at capture for three consecutive years. After this recent bombing, people were again hesitant and afraid to ride the subway, but after a while, the fear subsided. This was the general pattern observed by law enforcement.

  I was recently appointed to help capture this dangerous terrorist because my superiors in the Bureau knew that I was resourceful. The citywide situation was getting desperate. The police feared that The Shadow was getting ready to take off the gloves. They believed he was planning a major attack in the city, possibly using a new and more powerful weapon of mass destruction.

  I got up early the next day and prepared for work. After breakfast, I headed out the door. It was a beautiful and sunny day. The morning air felt invigorating. I couldn’t help but smell the bakeries lining Delancy Street. The rolling of dough never smelled sweeter. I remembered walking these cobblestoned streets as a boy with my mother. I enjoyed walking in the open markets, watching the interesting people go about their daily business. Soon I approached the subway.

  The early morning human activity congregating around the rail station picked up considerably. The relentless crush of humanity pushed me inside my train. I found a seat in the crowded car. As the train pulled forward and the station disappeared, I hoped that nothing would happen. My station was only three stops away; what were the chances of another attack, so close to the last one? Then again, maybe Rose and Jim had thought the same thing. I reminisced about the wonderful conversations I had with them going to work every morning. We’d talk about practically every topic under the sun, including the weather. I felt sad not having them around anymore.

  The early morning rush hour in this great labyrinth of underground tunnels always seemed so hectic and unpredictable to me, uncertain as to where everyone was going. It was a dizzying array of individual people, behaving like lonely particles in some weird and variegated correlation of quantum mechanics: people disappearing, then reappearing in perceived patterns of chaotic indifference. It was a never-ending, complex bustle of human ingenuity to arrive at one’s destination.

  Speaking of arriving at one’s destination, I finally arrived at mine. I got off the train and walked the two blocks to the Waverly Building. I was greeted in the vestibule by Joanna Peavey, the receptionist.

  “How’s the baby?” I asked with a smile on my lips.

  “Fine, Jimmy, she’s quite a bundle of high energy and unpredictable behavior, as I’m sure you already know.”

  “I wouldn’t know that; I never had a kid.”

  “Well, maybe someday you will.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  After a short exchange of news, I continued walking past all of the workers riveted to their individual assignments. I smiled and waved, then walked into my office. I shared a large office with two other Bureau employees.

  I drank a few sips of coffee and some whiskey, then studied the daily briefing waiting for me on my small and messy desk. I looked over the paperwork and consulted with my colleagues before starting work.

  In the media, the Shadow Stalker killings gained widespread publicity. For three years, news organizations around the world followed this unusual murder investigation. These random subway bombings gripped the city with great fear and were of sensational import because of the sustained anonymity of the terrorist. People from every corner of the city were terrified of the Shadow of Death.

  I started working for the government ten years ago when I was thirty-two. Before coming to work here at the Bureau, I worked in a government agency not far from the city. I had a modest apartment, and I didn’t mind the commute to work. I’d spent several years at that job and seemed content. I was transferred to the Bureau three years ago, around the time the Shadow Stalker first appeared.

  Soon after my transfer to the Bureau, I was asked to go on a forced sabbatical. My superiors insisted I take this leave of absence because I was having difficulty concentrating. My performance wasn’t up to the standard that government officials expected and demanded from me. “James Watson, you’re not living up to your potential,” rang in my ears. I decided to spend my time back then living in a small village high in the Himalayan Mountain chain near Tibet. I stayed in the tiny village of Maraba, near Pinto, and deep in the mountainous region of that area. My personal life was in turmoil, and I needed the time to reflect and sort things out.

  Before my voluntary exile living as a recluse in Maraba, I was working for the government. I was employed at the Bureau, a government agency that worked in conjunction with
other law enforcement personnel. I was retained by the Bureau as a problem solver. Whenever there was a difficult problem or complex challenge, I was asked to solve it. My keen and probing investigative skills were useful on the job and recognized by my superiors. I’ve always wanted to be an independent sleuth but lacked the self-confidence to work on my own. Someday, however, I plan to fulfill my ambition and realize my lifelong dream.

  When I first joined the Bureau, I worked as a detective. I was assigned a service revolver and became a certified marksman. I’ve owned many guns over the years, but my favorite is a custom-made Webley Mk IV. It’s accurate and reliable, and I always carry it with me.

  As previously mentioned, I was transferred to the Bureau three years ago. I requested to be transferred here from the Dalworth Agency where I worked in nearby Pottsville. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my job at the Dalworth Agency, but more that I wanted a new and exciting challenge for myself. At first there was resistance to my working here at the Bureau. Apparently, someone was trying to block my transfer. I never found out who that person was, but it didn’t matter. Eventually my request was approved.

  Today, I’d spent most of my time sifting through reports at my desk about the T7 tragedy. It was hard reviewing those gruesome photos. Many of the people that were killed in the subway train were regulars that I got to know on my way into work each day. What kind of a monster would do something like this? As I was sifting through the reports, the time went by quickly, and I was ready to go home. The Shadow of Death weighed heavily on commuters. Despite the fears, thousands of people did ride the trains to work every day, and I was one of them. This day, however, I decided to walk back to my apartment. I wondered when this nightmare would end.

  The next day I arrived at work early. After reviewing several piles of important paperwork, I had my first meeting with two of my colleagues, both of whom I respected. Bob Smythe was an investigative agent of solid and impeccable credentials. He came to work here soon after I had arrived. Bob was appointed to head the investigative unit working the Shadow Stalker case. I’ve worked with him on many projects since coming to the Bureau. He was a man of integrity and could be trusted. Agent James Madison was the other colleague I liked and respected. We didn’t work together that much before this case, but I admired his hands-on approach in the field. He was an expert in explosives. James had a great sense of humor, and we often exchanged humorous tidbits at work. We were affectionately known as the Jimmy-James twins. I was lucky to have these two smart and friendly colleagues helping me with these horrific serial murders.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Shadow Stalker’s short hiatus ended abruptly with yet another bombing. This was the eighth time the serial killer had struck. When I heard about the bombing, I smashed my fist down on the desk in rage. How could this monster keep doing this to my city? The explosion in the underground T2 subway train paralyzed the city. I read all about it in the newspaper. There were many casualties and some fatalities. The joyous mood and spirit of the people, eagerly anticipating the upcoming winter holidays, were dampened. For a brief time, everything in this bustling metropolis stopped.

  The T2 bombing occurred several weeks after Rose and Jim were murdered. I was still angry at the loss of my friends. I could still vividly recall seeing their lifeless bodies being taken out of that gruesome subway tunnel. Those terrifying images had hardened my resolve. I was determined to ferret out this terrorist and nail his coffin shut. Capturing the elusive Shadow Stalker was now my job, but soon it became my mission.

  Investigative agents from the police department and the Bureau swarmed over the bomb site. They were gathering information and evidence. Teams of forensic units were hard at work. The torn and twisted metal wreckage with blood-spattered debris was sickening to witness. I remained glued to my job of analyzing data at the Bureau. That process began by accumulating information from all eight bomb sites over a period of several weeks. I wanted to learn all I could about these bombings. My task was nicknamed Operation Bloodhound.

  I began my work on this case by analyzing reams of data and information that had been collected from the beginning of the case. I wanted to observe and quantify all of the information collected by police, the Bureau and law enforcement. I was trying to create a profile of the killer. Probing a killer’s mind could be a daunting task. This bloodthirsty fiend was canny, and quite dangerous.

  My first approach in Operation Bloodhound was simple: I wanted to know why the Shadow Stalker hadn’t been caught in three years by an army of law enforcement personnel. I had to know how this terrorist completed such an egregious litany of crimes for such a long time. This was indeed remarkable in today’s sophisticated world of law enforcement. I was dealing with a madman, or perhaps a madwoman. This terrorist had a penchant for camouflage, an ease for blending into crowds, a human chameleon with a simple array of technical gadgetry that could always escape detection.

  The nickname of this terrorist was fitting. It seemed that the current crop of detectives trying to catch him were always left in the dust of the killer’s wake, in the aftereffects of the deed. Each bomb site left insufficient evidence for the authorities to work with. And when the dust of the bombings settled, this shadowy figure was long gone.

  I’ve often wondered if these past incidents, including the recent T2 subway bombing, might have been nothing more than a playful “tease” by this clever and mischievous phantom; an inconsiderate, mocking gesture of our dumbfounded security forces’ bumbling attempts at capture. A string of successful bombings like these would produce a cockiness and arrogance in the mind of any confident criminal, especially one as insane as the Shadow Stalker. It was now our belief that, armed with a deadly weapon of mass destruction, this hateful pariah would try and wreak maximum devastation on an innocent and unsuspecting population. Finding this terrorist and putting him in jail was now the Bureau’s top priority.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In a great city of ten million innocent souls, where does one begin to search for the killer known as Shadow Stalker? In my apartment today, I was alone and relaxed, having afternoon tea, when several clues I’d been pursuing all day began to gel into significance. Colonel Montgomery Richards, my boss at the Bureau and the head of the entire Shadow Stalker case, had called earlier in the day with additional information about something that I’d enquired about. Realizing that further enquiry was not a necessity on this new information, I decided to leave my apartment and investigate another lead outside the city. I wanted to interview a woman who had survived the most recent subway bombing. I was hoping she could shed some light on what happened there.

  It was a particularly enchanting moonlit night as I drove along the winding roads to Lancaster where this woman lived. The eeriness of that black backdrop of trees, against the calming light of the full moon, made me think back to my last love relationship. Forgive my digression, but I admit that I am a fool and philistine when it comes to understanding human relationships, especially those with the opposite sex. I’ve often felt a haunting and painful disconnect between head and heart and struggled with angry feelings over being abused as a child.

  My love interest, several years ago, was with a woman named Caroline Prichard. She was the most ravishing beauty I’d ever seen, and, by her good and gentle nature, produced an almost spiritual glow to her physical being. This woman was of medium build and height with long and flowing auburn brown hair. From the beginning, I wanted her sexually, but it was her intangible and ingratiating quality of refined spiritual essence that I found most appealing.

  I met Caroline before coming to work at the Bureau. I’d just started working at the Dalworth Agency in Pottsville. One weekend, as I was strolling through the markets in the city, I spotted her. After a while, we started dating and eventually lived together. Caroline was the ideal mix of sexual attraction and beauty, psychology, and fun-loving temperament. She possessed an extraordinary intelligence with a keen and observant eye. She had a passion for detail an
d was like me in so many other ways I considered her to be my true soul mate.

  But, despite it all, our relationship, at times, was disappointing. We fought over trivial things. I preferred to live in a world where people got along with each other in that special place of serenity, security and unconditional love. In some ways, being in love with another was to be caught up in a world of illusions, constantly seeing in others what one wants to see, blinded to the vulgar reality that has a way of tainting one’s special love. The hardest work in any relationship was keeping the channels of communication open. Unfortunately, near the end of our relationship, the understanding behind the communication between us became distorted and often misunderstood. I didn’t know if I could survive the ugly reality that seemed to torment my everyday thinking. It was then, after our breakup, I left for Asia and Maraba, to try to sort things out.

  The lead I was pursuing with the woman in Lancaster proved useless. After my business there was finished, I grabbed a newspaper, got a bite to eat and returned home.

  I entered the foyer of my spacious apartment on Linden Way in South Highgate. My friends knew my apartment as Highgate. I rented this spacious and luxurious two-floor apartment when I started working at the Bureau. I lived in a fairly posh area of the city near the open markets and the park. I’ve always enjoyed walking through the markets and taking long walks in the park. It was a dream come true to live in such a quiet and secure neighborhood. I could afford to rent this oasis of luxury thanks to my attractive salary from my special work in the Bureau.

  Alone in my apartment, I was mulling over the facts of the case when I began to tire. I felt frustrated and disappointed with not finding any leads in Lancaster. It wasn’t easy researching this material and constantly thinking about what this terrorist was doing to my city. I needed a break from the difficult work of the past several weeks. I was lonely and wanted company to share the dizzying array of nightlife opportunities, so I decided to contact a few of my friends from work.