Part I, Chapter 1
Part I
Chapter 1
Dear Jodie
Evening of March 29, 1981
Washington, D.C.
There’s a run-down watering hole on 18th Street, a couple of blocks away from the White House. Capitol staffers, assistants, interns, and that sort of folk frequent it sometimes; booze is cheap, so that’s good. In comes Ted Bundy, like he usually does, after an exhausting day in the law office of a major D.C. lobbyist. It’d been quite the climb for the UPS Law graduate, the same who passed the bar with the highest score in his class and went on to immerse himself in the brutal, bloodthirsty world of law. He’d been a prolific hunter, he had both the talent and the youth for that. Two years of litigation in a prestigious Seattle firm had offered scarce satiation for his thirst. He longed for more. He wanted D.C.
And so there he went. He thrived in the circus of politics, the dirt-smearing and mud-slinging that the public knew all to well, but also the betrayals, the backstabbing, the petty rivalries and grudges that festered in the dark underbelly of the American democracy. Bourbon-sipping, cigar-huffing fat cats that sit in Congress and pocket their outrageous paychecks while the average American struggled to scrape by amidst record-breaking inflation and unemployment, that was the crude reality Bundy sought with uncommon interest. A part of him hated them, with vicious intensity, but another one yearned it. He tried not to entertain those thoughts, of course. They’d taken their toll in the past. That particular evening, Bundy thought, he’d ease himself with an ice-cold glass of scotch.
The pungent smell of liquor and floor cleaner greeted Bundy. Patrons, mostly clad in suits and ties, worked busily on their drinks or downed mouthfuls of peanuts. Cheerful laughter roared from the corners of the dimly-lit room. With a slight nod from the barman, an overweight Pole in necktie, Bundy had a tumbler of Glenfiddich—on the rocks—slid across the bar to where he usually sat.
He noticed a fellow sitting to his left. An odd thing, too, considering folks almost never chose the seats on the far end. It was sufficiently intriguing for Bundy to peer over and notice a man hunched over the bar, pieces of notebook paper and the Post sprawled all over, as a glass of plain water sat idly on a napkin. The man, probably in his mid-20’s, was an unnerving sight. As he pulled up a section from the newspaper, his pencil rolled across the bar and reached Bundy.
Bundy picked up the errant pencil uneasily. “Excuse me, buddy, I think this is yours.”
The other guy turned frantically and eyed him with suspicion, like a frightened animal. Bundy was surprised by the man’s sudden reaction, but held out the pencil for him.
“Thank you.” Something akin to a smile contorted on the man’s face. It was then that Bundy noticed his fatigued eyes, and the bulging, discolored bags underneath them. It was clear the guy hadn’t slept in quite some time.
“Are you alright?” Bundy asked. “You seem, uh… jumpy.”
The stranger quickly retreated to his corner of the bar, turning his head. “It’s nothing,” he murmured.
No point in wasting my time, Bundy thought as he returned to his drink. Just another jittery nut-job, probably off his rocks on powder or speed. He’d known people who consumed enough drugs to kill a horse on the daily, each with their own degree of tolerance. In this part of town all kinds of wild and nasty stuff flowed freely, not only amongst aides and assistants but also in the higher echelons of power. Senators, department heads, White House staffers, you name it. Bundy was quick to realize that cocaine was a currency in on itself, and a valuable one at that. That was a secret Bundy had no business learning. Nothing like a late-evening fix of booze, he said to himself as he went to work on his scotch.
“Say, you know where I can see the President?”
Bundy was startled by the question. “What?”
His odd new acquaintance kept a blank expression as he carefully inspected the day’s paper, tracing each article with his index finger as if he were looking for something. “I went to the White House and asked some tourists there; they said I had a better shot if I tried the front, but obviously they had no clue. Maybe there’s an event or something I could go to?”
Bundy starred at him blankly. The guy turned to face him, an utter lack of emotion in his expression.
“I’m John, by the way.”
Bundy shook his hand. “Ted Bundy, a pleasure.”
Without any acknowledgement, so-named John went back to his reading. “The President. Do you know where I could see him?”
Something felt overly strange. Bundy perceived an odd sensation, as if a part of his mind was desperately yelling at him that John was trouble. In hindsight, he realized the gravity of his encounter, but also how overwhelming the force of destiny had been that day. It served as something of a monument in his memory, constantly reminding him that he stood alone amidst the currents of time and that nothing was ever by chance. If something happened, it had a reason. If something didn’t happen, that had a reason too. Quite a simple yet all-powerful philosophy. In the chaotic incoherence that surrounded the world of Ted Bundy, it was the closest thing to order he’d ever known.
But that evening of March 29, the parts of the great puzzle remained unsolved, and Ted Bundy found himself, perhaps still unknowingly, adrift in the great currents of time.
“I heard he’ll be at the Hilton tomorrow afternoon,” Bundy offered, downing the last of his scotch and signaling the barman for the tab. “I’m not sure of the exact time, though.”
John suddenly looked up, as if he’d struck upon a great realization. He nodded, and began folding up the newspaper.
“That’ll do,” he remarked wistfully. “Thank you, Mr. Bundy.”
“No problem.”
The thought lingered for a second. John threw the newspaper into a nearby trashcan as he readied himself to leave. He took the pencil and stuffed it in his pocket. As he engaged in said motion, Bundy noticed a page of yellow paper overflowing with frantic writing. It looked like a letter.
"May I ask, though… what were you writing there?”
The question would haunt Bundy for some time. What exactly compelled him to intrude so thoroughly upon the life of a stranger? But it was hard to deny that John had a certain appeal—for better or for worse—which Bundy found himself struggling to resist. The newcomer was irrefutably enigmatic in an almost sinister kind of way. Bundy could tell he came from afar, and he came for a purpose. Perhaps those questions had so brazenly betrayed Bundy’s otherwise unwavering reservedness at that particular moment. Or perhaps the scotch had loosened his neurons somewhat.
Whichever the case, the deed was done, and John’s first response was a violent shift in expression, as if he’d been insulted to his face. But his face quickly changed to the same blank expression he’d so often worn throughout their interaction. Carefully, with hesitation, John revealed the paper.
“It’s a love letter. For… my girlfriend. Her name is Jodie.”
Bundy nodded. As he tried to peek into the harsh pencil-strokes that criss-crossed the lined paper, John hid it away impulsively. “May I read it?” Bundy asked.
John was now frightened. He began shaking his head, his eyes piercing into Bundy’s.
“I have to go.”
And with that, before Bundy could even respond, the young man brought his belongings to his chest and hurried out of the bar and escaped into the night. Unnoticed, unseen by anyone but Ted Bundy, just another soul in the most soulless city on Earth. None of the other patrons even bothered to shoot a glance at the rushing figure. Life went on as it usually, nay, as it always did. Just another average Sunday.
“That goddamn kutas ran off without paying his tab.” The barman hustled over angrily at Bundy’s corner, his meaty head glistening with sweat. He grunted indignantly. “I swear if I see that rat again I’ll call the police.”
“I got it, Basil.” He set a twenty on the table. “Keep the change.”
Basil looked at him in awe, nodding. “You’re too generous, Ted. What, you made a new friend today or something?”
“A friend? No, never, Basil.” Bundy began to make his way to the exit. “Just one less stranger out there.”
He stepped out into the warm spring night.
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