Hank Jones - Monster

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Hank Jones - Monster

‘Tell me,’ began Sebastian Ford. ‘Living in this cell. Does it feel like home?’

‘Your curious wit,’ began Hank Jones, ‘Is beneath you, Sebastian. Still, the intellectual capacities ingrained into you by the dimwits above you shouldn’t really surprise me. You’re a cop, after all. Aren’t you Sebastian?’

‘A servant,’ commented Sebastian Ford, from the other side of the glass, glaring at Hank. It was not a glare of respect. It could never be that.

‘One questions just who you serve.’

‘The people,’ responded Sebastian Ford, the bible held steadily in his right hand on his lap, staring down this devil.

‘The people,’ mocked Hank, smiling dementedly. ‘All for the love of the people. $450 a week, after taxes, a modest home, forgive me. Unit. A wife who won’t give you head like she used to. A cocaine addicted son, and a prostitute for a daughter who tells you to go fuck yourself and your damned Christian church. I mean, you have found faith? Haven’t you, Sebastian?’

‘I’m not married,’ commented Sebastian Ford.

‘No. I didn’t think so,’ said Hank, staring at him from his dark solitude. Staring at his adversary.

Sebastian held the remote control upwards, and pointed it at the box in the cell. The volume came up a little. Benny Hinn, today.

‘Pentecostalism,’ commented Hank cynically. ‘The heart of your evangelical world.’

‘Jesus forgives,’ said Sebastian Ford, born again member of the Pentecostal Church of the Living God.

‘Jesus,’ said Hank. ‘When I was a lad, I came to terms with him. I liked him,’ he said, with the slightest tone of crudity on the word liked.

‘Jesus loves you,’ said Sebastian.

‘I never met him,’ said Hank coldly.

‘Jesus knows everyone,’ said Sebastian Ford.

‘The power of the divine. If it really exists,’ the same crudity on the word really.

‘You welcome hell?’ queried Sebastian.

Hank stared at him. He was a psychologist. Cold, hard, clinical. Atheistic. Hell, now. That was a fantasy for grown ups, wasn’t it.

‘Tell me, Sebastian. In all your Christian virtue, do you still get a hard on?’

Sebastian remained silent, not commenting.

‘Does Miss Atkinson come to you? In your dreams, Sebastian? Does she touch you, there? Were you want her too? Does she, Sebastian?’

‘I don’t see a need to talk about Christine.’

‘Christine, is it, Sebastian. Now why doesn’t that surprise me.’

Silence came over the cell. There seemed, at that point, an emptiness in the conversation, which seemed wanting to cascade into a fierce heated debate on the person of Christine Atkinson. A person held very, very , dear. To not just one of those present.



‘Christine is a fine agent. The FBI are proud of her.’

‘Proud enough to touch her, Sebastian. To touch her, there. Against protocol. Against policy. Or does your ‘Jesus’ virtue deny your dick, Sebastian? Does it?’

Sebastian said nothing, clutching at the King James Bible.

‘Christine is a good woman,’ said Sebastian.

‘With a vagina,’ responded Hank instantly.

Hank looked at his opponent. ‘Do you dream about that? Do you Sebastian? Miss Atkinsons Vagina?’

‘I knew you were a serial killer. I didn’t know you were also a leech.’

‘Forgive me, Sebastian,’ said Hank, somewhat apologetically. ‘But you are only human, aren’t you Sebastian. Only flesh,’ he paused, looking upwards, before returning a dreadful lustful gaze, saying, ‘and blood.’

Sebastian Ford stared at the face of evil, pointed the remote, turned the volume up to maximum, and left the cell of Hank Jones, the demented face of evil looking dispassionately at Benny Hinn on his Indian crusade, before looking away.

* * * * *

‘Maybe he’s right, Sebastian.’

Sebastian clutched at the bible. ‘It’s not a crutch.’

‘Religion. It’s hardly our profession. We’re serious men. University men. We know better.’

‘The higher power. It….’ He left off. ‘ It did something in my life. At that altar.’

‘Or you wanted it to. To justify yourself. To tell yourself, your Sebastian. You’re the good guy. Hank is the evil one. You’re a saint, he’s a sinner.’

‘Moral relativity?’ queried Sebastian.

‘Scruples are not good for our profession,’ Sebastian, continued his therapist. ‘A higher power? I mean, is that really relevant? For men like us? Does that matter? A hole, in your heart. A yearning, which needs love, affection. That lies there, and that King James fills it. But we leave it in the end, Sebastian. We get the hell over it, so to speak.’

‘There’s something there,’ murmured Sebastian Ford, clutching even more strongly at the leather bound tome in his hands.’

The doctor looked at his patient. This didn’t surprise him. Nervous breakdowns were common. He, himself, was deistic ultimately. A higher power explained his own questions, but it was not the focus. Morality was inherent in the design. The way they had come to be. But obsession over it, in this doctor’s eyes, had ruined more souls than it had ever saved. Souls who had been upright citizens of their country, lost on obsessions of puritanism, a drug that had infested his nation far too long.

‘Get the hell over it, Sebastian. Life goes on. Whatever you think you need in that book doesn’t matter that much in the eyes of eternity.’

‘Then what does?’

The psychologist remained silent. He had answers. Sebastian needed his own. He offered a thought, though. ‘Whatever is out there, Ford, in the end, scum like Hank Jones will get what is coming to them, and good guys, like us, well….. Well, if more is to come, then so be it.’

Sebastian nodded, coldly. But, yeah. Whatever it was. Whatever was at that altar, he would let it be now. He served a purpose. He served a point. If he really needed faith, then…….Well all in God’s good time.



Later that afternoon, he sat down in a park not far from home, looked at one last verse in the bible, a quote from genesis. ‘The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil’. He underlined it with a marker, left the bible on his bench seat, and walked off. He had his answers. He had enough answers. And whatever he was, as a man, Hank Jones was not. That much, deep, deep down, he knew enough to be true.

* * * * *

Christine Atkinson was sitting on a bench near the training ground of Quantico, leafing through various files. She was currently a Crimes analyst, working at Quantico itself, preparing and researching a book on serial killers, their internal motivations, and psychological profiles. One case, Hank Jones, was the subject of much of the book matter.

From a distance Sebastian Ford observed her, not coming near, just for a moment watching her, noticing her face, even her physique, but such thoughts being quickly rebuked.

'Christine,' said Sebastian, presenting himself.

'Mr Ford,' responded the FBI agent. 'A pleasure to see you.'

'Thanks Christine. Do you mind?' he queried, indicating the seat next to her.

Christine moved over a little, and Sebastian Ford sat down. He pulled out a lunchbox from his leather satchel, took out a salami and tomato sandwich, offered one to Christine who shook her head, and started eating.

'We have an issue, Christine. An unpleasant one.'

Christine looked at him momentarily, and returned her gaze forwards. 'I'm sure the FBI can handle whatever the situation is. I'm non-operational. Just a desk job, now, Sebastian. Had my fill, I guess.'

'A good agent never has their fill,' said Sebastian. 'Not an FBI agent anyway. We're not just cops, Christine. We can't just run away and hide when the going gets tough. This is a dirty world, and its full of dirty crime, and the strongest of us need to stand against that crime.'

'Still preaching, I see,' said Christine.

'I'm not preaching. Its the reality.'

'Yes Batman,' she replied.

Sebastian didn't say anything, but continued eating his sandwich, and soon started sipping on juice. Then he reached down into his satchel and pulled out a manilla folder. 'The Shark' was emblazoned over the cover. He placed it in her lap, and continued sipping his juice.

She looked at it momentarily, but said nothing.

'The Shark is the worst we've encountered.'

'Why the name?' asked Christine.

'It's unpleasant said Sebastian.'

'Nothing shocks me much anymore, Mr Ford.'

'He amputates them first. That much we have worked out. But he feeds the limbs to sharks. And then, presumably, throws in the victim into the water, drowning them, eaten by the shark usually.'

'Lovely,' said Christine, picking up the fille and looking through some of the photographs.

'Has a Jaws fixation,' said Sebastian. 'Quotes from the novel are always found on laminated cards shoved into the bodies throats.'

'He has a sense of humour.'

'Not sure about that, though, anyway,' said Sebastian.

'About what?' asked Christine.

'That its a guy. One letter the Shark signed. Good luck catching me fellas. I'm a really nasty bitch when it comes right down to it.'

'A woman,' said Christine, momentarily surprised.

'It looks that way.'

Christine looked at the photographs a little longer, and then handed the folder back to Sebastian. 'Not my concern,' she said. 'I'm committed to my writings.'

'There's a catch,' said Sebastian.

'Which is?' queried Christine.

'One letter. Sent to us. From the shark.'

'What did it say.'

'Hope uncle Hank is entertaining you. He's one hell of a guy.'

Christine turned and looked deep into the eyes of Sebastian Ford.

'I'll start next week,' she said shortly.

'I'll start brewing the coffee,' responded Sebastian Ford, and briefly smiled to himself, stood, raised his hand in a farewell gesture, and slowly left the grounds of the Quantico training facility.

Christine sat there, going through the remainder of her lunchbreak and, looking out at the recrutits going through their drills, said to herself. 'I can't escape you, can I Hank?'

The leaves rustled in the wind, the recruits hollered and yelled and continued their drills, and silence was the only other reply.

* * * * *

Christine Atkinson was driving her Ford Focus, an Australian model she'd had imported and changed the steering wheel from right hand drive to left hand drive, simply because she loved the car so much, through the countryside of Washington state, pine trees enshrouding her, lost in thought.

'She'd looked at the email from Sebastian on the Shark. 17 victims so far in the last 2 years, and no substantial leads. They'd followed the usual investigative techniques, followed up on the traditional contacts, and were at an end of their tether. What next? Hank, next. Naturally. But Sebastian wanted Christine to handle that. Christine got results.

The Shark, it seemed to Christine, was not a woman. Too cruel. Too viscious. Too dark to be a woman. She knew her sex well, she was a woman, and they rarely were involved in the seedy work of serial killing. It was not unknown, and indications were strong in this case that a woman was potentially the prime suspect. But something wasn't right. She smelled a rat. Something – different.

In her years of experience she'd developed a certain healthy respect for Serial killers. Not any admiration for their nobility of character, for they were the devil's own. But a grudging respect for the cavalier 'Fuck the World' mentality which granted them the absolute liberties they claimed. They didn't care. They had no respect for conventions, no respect for societal norms, no respect for the law. In a strange way, while he repulsed the deepest fears in the heart of Christine Atkinson, that brutal savagery of freedom both disturbed Christine, but in that fear she found a crude and animalistic respect. Respect for the killer at the head of the pack. Respect for the brutal alpha male who twisted, cut, and sank his fangs into all challengers and did what he would. She repented of it constantly. But it was a dark desire, born in the silence of lambs, which pervaded her thoughts, especially on quiet nights, lonely nights, when she dreamed evil dreams, and visions of blood filled her head.

She shook off this thought, and reminded herself she was agent of the law, but Hank's grinning madness condemned her still, cited her hypocritical devotion to a manmade rule, only made to control and restrict.

God she hated him.

She hated him.

Shortly the pines gave way, and she approached Cardleford Washington FBI headquarters. There was an officer at the gate, and she handed him her pass. He looked her over, checking her pass.

'Thanks Ms Atkinson. Agent Ford is expecting you.'

She smiled, and received back her card and drove into the facility, parking.

Coming to the front entrance she entered and found a reception area, a young woman seated, smiling at her as she approached.

'Here to see Agent Sebastian Ford. Christine Atkinson. Quantico.'

The woman nodded, checked her screen, and said, 'Level 3. B Wing. He's in special crimes office.'

She nodded, and looked at the elevator, but the recent health kick she was on forced her to the stairs.

Finding B wing, she found the glass door, knocked, and an officer shortly answered.

'Christine Atkinson,' she said, showing her ID.

'Christine. I've heard a lot about you. Agent Hawkins. Come in.'

Christine entered the building. It was traditional FBI, more modern looking then some place, and Sebastian was at the back of the room, next to the photocopying machine, looking out the windows at the surrounding grounds.

Sebastian turned and looked at her. 'The coffee is still brewing. Sorry,' he apolgized, pointing to the coffee machine near the copier.

'That's ok,' said Christine.

She entered the room, and found a seat opposite Sebastian's desk.

'So,' he said.

'Yes,' she replied.

'You know Christine, I'm really very grateful. We can handle this, you know. But there is a connection between you and Hank. Something in you he respects. You'll get to him when others won't.'

'What's first?' she asked.

'I'll show you the bodies. They're in the morgue down below. Then we'll have some lunch and talk through the case this afternoon. Agent Hakwins here has been on the case from the beginning. He'll fill you in on were we are up to.'

'Great,' said Christine.

'Remember, Christine. Hank trusts you in his own convoluted way. You have an opportunity to get information on the Shark another officer might just run into a brick wall on.'

'If you think so,' responded Christine.

'Your too humble,' he responded.

'Have their been any new victims?' she asked agent Hawkins.

'Not since early February. Two months. But, following the pattern, its only a matter of time,' responded the agent.

'Then we have no time to waste,' said Christine.

The coffee machine started beeping. 'Coffee?' asked Sebastian.

Christine nodded.

Later that afternoon, Sebastian had worked up a bit of a sweat, showing Christine all around the compound, and had showered, and was in his office, reading, of all things, the Bible. He needed a break from it all, all the heaviness, all the gruesome details, and found comfort in the gospel, and sat there, looking out the window. He had an email in his inbox. From June. June Middlesworth. She was in his church, the Elect Church of the Living God, and they were not exactly large worldwide. They were Pentecostal, and true to the faith of the Word, but they were at odds with the world. At odds with a society which fascinated in monsters like Hank Jones. They were the chosen ones, they told each other. The true chosen ones.

It was believed, in the church, that the return of the saviour was imminent, but before that, a world holocaust, of judgement and wrath of God. For the scriptures did not lie. And Jesus would return, upon the trumpet of the Angel Uriel, the firstborn Son of God, for Jesus was Christ, in the Kingdom of the Elect Angels, and Uriel would sit as King at the Grand Coming, and the Prince of the Covenant, the Lord Jesus, would show his love and his grace and his salvation as the Elect Angelic Christ. And, so it was believed, Jesus would sit in Jerusalem, and Uriel in China, for ancient text of 'The Word of Heaven', the text afore Genesis in the Holy Bible, spoke of Uriel's people and that the first man, Dirt, was indeed born in the mysterious east. Yet Christ came from Israel, and all the nations had their tutelary angelic Prince, each who would rule the world in the grand and glorious Kingdom of God upon the coming of their Lord and Saviour. And this Sebastian believed, and it gave him confidence and faith, and he could stare down creatures like Hank Jones because of it, because he knew his judgement was coming.

He would leave the email – till the morning. Get in early, and pray a little, and see what June had to say. But he was finished for the night, and going out of the office, he thought on the grim work ahead of them, and sighed. Another day – another dirty dollar.

* * * * *

'Who are the Morning Stars, Hank?' asked Christine

'I see you've been talking with Sebastian,' said Hank.

'You are talking to Angels now, apparently. The Morning Stars of God.'

'Job is a wonderful book,' said Hank. 'Sebastian is born again. Convinced I need to - reform my ways. I pray to the Morning Stars. Especially Satan. He's a Morning Star after my own heart.'

Christine nodded. 'The Shark. What do you know of him?'

Hank glared at her through the window, and sat down with the Bible he had obtained. He looked at her. 'The Beast. He's my kind of guy. Devouring the church. That's the way to go.'

'So, you are into the Devil,' said Christine.

'I'm into - lot's of things,' said Hank. 'But the devil, he's fine.'

'I've thought about it, you know You know, you have never really been impressed with the fact that it is murder. That doesn't bother you. But, you know, eating people. It is actually just kind of weird.'

Hank looked at her. 'What is life if we can't get a little bit nuts.'

'A hell of a lot less fucked up,' said Christine in reply. 'Jesus probably had good ideas. I'm not particularly fussed. But the Devil is hardly the best role model.'

'Depends what you are into, sistah,' replied Hank in a southern accent.

'He gets thrown into hell in the end of that book,' said Christine. 'Not where I'd like to go.'

'Where life's a big party,' replied Hank.

'With all the Devil's Morning Stars,' said Christine. 'I'm sure you'll have a party. Burning in eternal fire.'

'This cell. It's a little bit chilly in winter. The fire will warm me up.'

'I'll bet,' replied Christine. 'The Shark. What do you know about him?'

'Quote a scripture at me, Christine. Like Sebastian does. I'm dying to hear it.'

Christine looked at him, and thought on a verse she remembered from Sunday school. 'I, the Lord thy God, am a consuming and avenging fire.'

'Oh, he's a passionate one is the Almighty,' said Hank. 'Such an - inspiration. The Shark is a regular type of lad. He likes the sea a lot. East coast villages on the shore. Not as far south as Miami, but not as far north as New York. He's a centred sort of guy. But you'll have to quote more of that bible at me, sistah, if you want anything more. I'm taking a nap. See yah.'

Christine looked at Hank as he turned to his bed, and walked away. She had her information for now.

* * * * *

Sebastian Ford looked at the surveillance tape. 'There,' he said to Christine.

'What?' she asked.

He rewound the tape, and forwarded it a screen at a time, and then he paused. 'Right there,' he said.

She looked. 'A guy in a jacket.'

Sebastian used the magnifier, and zeroed in on the jacket. There was a shark logo on it.

'Common enough design,' said Christine.

'This was taken the afternoon of the murder,' said Sebastian. 'It's two blocks away from where the body was found.'

She looked again at the figure. 'What is the jacket?' she asked.

Sebastian brought out a sheet of paper with a picture of a shark logo on it. 'Theodore's Shark's Club.' was written underneath the logo.

'It's a club from New Jersey,' said Sebastian. 'Poker club. Private. They specialise in winning competitions.'

'He's a card shark,' she said. 'And gets a kick out of his identity.'

'Could be successful. Or not,' said Sebastian. 'But does this to hilight his ego. Past abuse most likely. Maybe father or something deeper.'

'Usual motivating factors. Justification against someone who has wronged him. His way of compensating and making sense of it,' said Christine. She loked at the picture on the screen again. 'He's about 6 feet tall, and it looks as if he is white.' She turned to Sebastian. 'When do we visit this club?'

Sebastian pulled out two plane tickets. 'We leave tonight. In at JFK at 11. Staying at a hotel near the club. Tomrrow, when they open at midday, we chat. Go home and get a rest,' he said. 'I'll pick you up at 6.'

Christine nodded, and looked again at the picture. They had their first lead.

* * * * *

'Albert Johnson,' said Theodore Rivera. 'The bloke is Alec Smith.. Lives at Amity Island.'

'Amity?' asked Sebastian Ford.

'Where the shot Jaws?' asked Christine.

'Yeh. He's a shark alright. His quirky sense of humor,' said Albert.

'Do you have an address?' asked Christine.

Albert flicked onto the members address book on the private club register, and wrote down an address. He passed it to Sebastian.

'Thanks Albert,' said Sebastian. 'We'll be in touch.'

As they left Sebastian turned to Christine. 'This is too easy,' he said.

'I like it easy. Sometimes they make silly mistakes.'

'Not so sure,' replied Sebastian.

They drove down to Amity in a car borrowed from NYPD, and found the address. Sebastian knocked. They waited. Nobody home.

'Let's look around,' said Christine.

'We don't have a warrant,' said Sebastian.

'No harm in looking through windows,' said Christine, walking around the side of the house. The back yard had a pool, and a garage, which was locked. They looked in through the window of the garage, but it all looked pretty innocent.

'Sebastian!' yelled Christine. She pointed. There was a fresh pile of dirt. 'A grave?' she asked him.

'Just too obvious,' replied Sebastian.

'I'm calling it in,' said Christine.

Soon Amity police were at the address, and they dug up the dirt. They found bones. Old bones.

'Human,' said Christine. 'We have our man.'

Later that day Alec Smith came home to find a raft of police cars everywhere. He asked what all the fuss was about and Sebastian spoke with him.

'Mr Smith. Can you account for these human bones we've found in your back yard?'

Alec hesitated. 'Mr Smith, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. You don't have to say anything..' and on it went. The Shark had been busted.

* * * * *

'You got your man,' said Hank.

'Alec Smith,' said Christine. 'Hasn't confessed, but the bones are a female lady of similar description to the others, and he won't give any answers. We have enough for trial.'

'Alec Smith?' said Hank. 'Interesting.'

Christine looked at the Monster. 'Why do you say that?'

'Alec is into bones,' said Hank. 'There's nothing new about that. But he's not a skin man. I thought you would have noticed. The shark skins at the club.'

'What about them?' asked Christine.

'You didn't inquire who skinned the sharks? He's good at it. Lot's of experience,' replied Hank. 'I think you know what I mean.'

Christine looked at Hank, and instantly the name 'Albert Johnson' dropped into her head. 'I've got to go,' she said to Hank.

'Oh, Christine,' said Hank. 'Give my love to Albert. He's an old pal like Alec. Did lots of interesting business with both of them.'

She looked at him. 'Monster,' she said.

'Like your God. I like the taste of flesh,' he replied. Christine stood there, yet again apalled by the face of evil, and turned and ran. They had a killer who might just have skipped the coop.

* * * * *

It took three weeks, and they found Albert Johnson, drunk, in a seedy hotel of New Jersey, high as a kite. He had a skin with him. A fresh skin. All the traits were the same. Christine knew Hank had given her the tip off to a criminal they might just have missed. It was no redeeming sign in the madman, but she gave him a slight ounce of credit for that.

It was later, though. And a terrorist group, the Hand of Allah, were suspected of being behind the escape of Hank Monster, when outside of his cell, in the garden, for a reward for his help in the 'Shark' case. Hank had written to the public front of the organisation, inquiring in his newfound zeal of faith in God, as to whether Allah was the truth of truths. The letter had been sent, despite authorities thinking perhaps it shouldn't, but he had been allowed occasional correspondence. Somehow the Hand of God got into the thought that he was seeking conversion, and that their fellow must be freed. Whatever motivated the terrorist groups thinking was beyond them. But he was gone, and they had an old enemy on their most wanted list once more. Life was never easy, Christine Atkinson thought to herself. And sometimes monsters got away, yet she hoped and prayed he would not be found, but die in a ditch, dead at the hands of Allah's henchmen. But only time would tell if that prayer would find its fruition. Only time.

The End