Authors: Cody McFadyen
“They e-mailed back. Apparently they
loved
the pics you sent them.”
I stammered. Blushed some more. Blushed harder as I realized that I was getting turned on.
“I don’t think you should do that again, Smoky—neck down or not, it’s probably not real smart. In fact, it’s pretty stupid. If anyone found out, you’d be fired in a heartbeat.”
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I stared at him, my face still hot, nodded. “Yeah. I mean, you’re right. I won’t. But . . .”
He arched his eyebrows in that way I’d always thought was sexy as hell. “But . . . ?”
“But for now—let’s fuck.”
And I was tearing off my clothes, and he was tearing off his, and we ended up howling at the moon. The last thing he said to me before we both fell asleep that night was so funny at the time, so Matt, that it stabs me in the heart to remember now. He’d grinned, eyes half lidded.
“What?” I asked.
“Not my daddy’s FBI anymore, now, is it?”
I started giggling, and he started laughing, and we made love again and fell asleep spooned against each other.
I am not judgmental of the harmless excursions adults make, whatever the Bureau’s public stance may be. I see the ending of life. It’s hard to get excited about someone showing their boobs. But that’s a far cry from running a Web site and charging people to watch me stuff things between my legs. I wonder if Annie got more from it than just money, or if it was only about the money. Remembering my friend, it was probably about more than just money. She was always a free-range runner, a female Icarus flying just a little too close to the sun. I shake myself from this reverie. I wonder for a moment if I have lost time, if I’m going to become one of those shell-shocked people who stop talking mid-sentence to stare off into the distance. I see James studying me. For some reason, the image of him—of all people—finding out about those pictures that got posted flies into my mind, sparking an irrational bit of paranoia. God, I really would have to kill myself then.
“You sound like you know your stuff, Leo. We’re going to need you on the computer angle, so I hope you are a supergeek.”
“The superest.” He grins.
“Let’s hear about the note.”
Callie reaches over to her satchel, opens it, pulls a printout from a folder. She hands it over to me.
“Did you read this?” I ask James.
“Yes.” He hesitates. “It’s . . . interesting.”
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I nod, meeting his eyes, and I feel the connection. Oil and ball bearings. This is where we meet, and he wants to know what I think of it, whatever else he might feel or say.
I focus my attention on the words as I read them. I need to get into this killer’s mind, and these are words he gave a lot of thought to. To us this document is priceless. It can tell us a lot about this monster, if we can unravel it.
To Special Agent Smoky J. Barrett. I wish this was “eyes only,” but I know how little your FBI respects privacy when it comes to a chase. Every door is thrown open, the shades are rolled up, the shadows chased away.
I'd like to apologize first for the lapse between
killing your friend and alerting the police to her death. It couldn't be helped. I needed time to get certain things into motion. I will strive to be honest with you, Agent Barrett, and I will be honest here. While the needed time was the primary factor, I'll admit that thinking about little Bonnie, face-to-face with her mother's corpse for those three days, staring into her dead eyes, smelling the stink as it began, held a curious thrill for me. Do you think she'll ever recover from that? Or do you think she'll be haunted by it until the day she dies? Will that day come sooner, perhaps by her own hand, as she tries to chase away the nightmares with a sharp razor or some sleeping pills? Only time will tell, but thinking about it is interesting.
Further honesty: I didn't touch the child. I enjoy the pain of people, I am that serial cliché. I am not morally against the sexual rape of youth, but it holds no particular allure for me. She remains chaste, at least physically. Raping her mind was far more fulfilling. As you are one of those people who cannot turn away from death, I'll tell you about the death of your friend, Annie King. She did not die quickly. She was in much pain. She
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begged for her life. I found this both amusing and arousing. What, I wonder, does that make you tick off on your checklist about me, Agent Barrett?
Let me help you along.
I was not the victim of sexual or physical abuse as a child. I was not a bedwetter, and I did not torture small animals. I am something far purer. I am a legacy. I do what I do because I come from a bloodline, from the FIRST.
It is truly what I was born to do. Are you ready for this next, Agent Barrett? You will scoff, but here it is: I am a direct descendant of Jack the Ripper.
There. It's said. You are, no doubt, shaking your head as you read this. You've consigned me to the status of another nut, an unfortunate soul who hears voices and gets his orders from God.
We'll clear up that misconception, and soon. For now, let's leave it at this: Your friend Annie King, she was a whore. A modern-day whore of the information superhighway. She deserved to die screaming. Whores are a cancer on the face of this world; she was no exception.
She was the first. She will not be the last.
I am carrying on in the footsteps of my ancestor. Like him, I will not be caught, and like him, what I do will become history. Will you play the Inspector Abberline to my Jack?
I hope so, I truly do.
Let's begin the chase in such a way: Be at your office on the 20th. A package for you will be delivered, and it will authenticate my statements. Though I know you won't listen, I give you my word that the package I send will contain no traps or bombs.
Go and visit little Bonnie. Perhaps you can wake each other up screaming at night, now that you're her new mommy.
And remember—there are no voices, no commands from God.
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All I have to listen to, to know who I am, is the beating of my own heart.
From Hell,
Jack Jr.
I finish reading and am silent and still for a moment. “That’s some letter,” I say.
“Just another wacko,” Callie says in a voice that’s brimming with scorn.
I purse my lips. “I don’t think so. I think this one’s more than that.”
I shake my head to clear it, look at James. “We’ll talk about this later. I need to think about it for a little while.”
He nods. “Yes. I also want to see the scene before I draw any real conclusions.”
That connection again. I feel the same way. We need to be there where it happened. To stand on the killing ground. We need to smell him.
“Speaking of that,” I say, “who caught this at SFPD?”
“Your old friend Jennifer Chang,” Alan rumbles from the front of the plane, surprising me. “I talked to her last night. She doesn’t know you’re coming up with us.”
“Chang, that’s good. She’s one of the best.” I met Detective Jennifer Chang on a case nearly six years ago. She was about my age, competent as hell, and had an acidic, biting sense of humor that I liked. “Where are they at on this thing? Have they started processing the scene?”
“Yep,” Alan says, moving down the aisle, sitting closer to us. “Crime Scene Unit in SF was all over it, with Chang playing the little dictator. I talked to her again at midnight. She already had the body at the coroner’s, all the photo work done, and CSU in and out. Fiber, trace, everything. That woman is a slave driver.”
“That’s how I remember her. What about the computer?”
“Other than dusting for prints, they haven’t touched it.” He jerks a thumb at Leo. “The Brain told them he’d take care of it.”
I look at Leo, nodding my head. “What’s your plan on that?”
“Pretty simple. I’ll do a cursory examination of the PC, check for any booby traps that might have been set to wipe the hard drive, stuff like
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that. Look for anything immediate. Beyond that, I’ll need to take it back to the office to really work on it.”
“Good. I need you to scour her computer, Leo. I need any and all deleted files, including e-mail, pictures, anything—and I mean anything—that can help us on this. He found her through the Internet. That makes the computer his first weapon.”
He rubs his hands. “Just lemme at it.”
“Alan, you take your usual avenue. Gather up copies of everything SFPD has so far in terms of reports, canvassing, and then second-guess all of it.”
“No problem.”
I turn to Callie. “You take CSU. They’re good up there, but you’re better. Try and be nice about it, but if you have to push someone aside . . .” I shrug.
Callie smiles at me. “My specialty.”
“James, I want you to take the coroner for now. Put on the pressure. We need the autopsy done today. After, you and I will go over and walk the scene.”
The hostility percolates, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods. I stop for a second. I run through it all in my head, making sure I’ve covered all the bases. I have, I think.
“That it?” Alan asks.
I look up at him, surprised at the anger in his voice. Having no idea where it’s coming from. “I think so.”
He stands up. “Good.” He walks away, back to the front of the plane, as all of us watch and wonder.
“Who put a big fat bug up his ass?” Callie asks.
“Yeah, what a grouch!” Leo chimes in.
Callie and I swivel our heads to stare at him. Hostile gazes all around.
Leo glances back and forth between us, nervous. “What?” he asks.
“It’s like the saying goes, child,” Callie says, poking a finger at his chest. “ ‘Don’t beat up my friend. Nobody gets to beat up my friend but me.’ Do you follow?”
I watch as Leo’s face closes down, becomes impassive. “Sure. You mean I’m not your friend, right, Red?”
Callie cocks her head at him, and I see some of the hostility leave her
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face. “No, honey-love—that’s not what I’m saying. This isn’t a clique, and we’re not in high school. So drop the poor besieged nerd persona.”
She leans forward. “What I’m saying is that I love that man. He saved my life once. And you don’t get to pick on him like I do. Yet. Do you follow, sweetie pie?”
Leo appears less hostile but not quite ready to back down. “Yeah, okay. I understand. But don’t call me child.”
Callie turns to me and grins. “He just might fit in after all, Smoky.”
She looks back at Leo. “If you value your life, don’t ever call me Red again, earring boy.”
“I’m going to talk to Alan,” I say. I’m distracted, not as amused by this banter as I would normally be. I move forward, leaving them to their good-natured bickering. Some small part of me that used to be a leader registers that what Callie is doing is, in fact, good for Leo and thus for the team. She’s accepting him in her own way. I’m glad. Sometimes when teams work together for a long while, they become too insular. Almost xenophobic. It’s not healthy, and I’m happy to see that they haven’t gone down that path. Well, at least Callie hasn’t. James stares out the window, closed and cold and not taking part. Quintessential James, nothing new. I arrive at the row Alan is sitting in. He’s staring at his feet, and the tension that pours off him is choking. “Mind if I sit down?” I ask. He waves a hand, doesn’t look at me. “Whatever.”
I sit and regard him for a moment. He turns to stare out the window. I decide to try the direct approach. “What’s up with you?”
He looks at me, and I almost recoil from the anger in his eyes.
“What’s that supposed to be? Show you can talk to the ‘brotha’?
‘What up?’ ”
I’m speechless. Struck dumb. I wait, thinking this will pass, but Alan continues to glare at me, and his rage only seems to be building.
“Well?” he asks.
“You know that’s not what I meant, Alan.” My voice is quiet. Even calm. “It’s obvious to everyone that you’re upset about something. I’m just—asking.”
He continues to glare for another moment, but this time the fire does burn down. A little. He looks down at his hands. “Elaina is sick.”
My mouth falls open. I’m flooded with shock and concern, instant
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and visceral. Elaina is Alan’s wife, and I have known her for as long as I have known him. She is a beautiful Latin woman, beautiful in both form and heart. She came to see me in the hospital, the only visitor I had. The truth is, she gave me no choice. She barged in, brushing the nurses aside, walked up to my bed, sat on the edge, and fought my hands aside to draw me into her arms, all without speaking a single word. I melted against her and wept until I was dry. My strongest memory of her will always be that moment. The world a blur behind my tears, Elaina, comfortable and warm and strong, stroking my hair and crooning comfort to me in a mix of English and Spanish. She is a
friend,
the rare, forever kind.
“What? What do you mean?”
Perhaps it’s the real fear he hears in my voice, but now the rage disappears. No more fire in those eyes. Just pain. “Stage-two colon cancer. They removed the tumor, but it had ruptured. Some of the cancer spilled into her system before the surgery happened.”
“And what does that mean?”
“That’s the fucked-up part. It might mean nothing. Maybe the cancer cells that came out when it ruptured are nothing to worry about. Or maybe they’re there, floating around, ready to spread through her system. They can’t give us any for-sures.” The pain is building in his eyes. “We found out because she was having really bad pains. We thought it might be appendicitis. They took her right into surgery and found the tumor, took it out. Afterward, do you know what the doc told me? He told me she was stage four. That she was probably going to die.”
I look at his hands. They are shaking.
“I couldn’t tell her. She was recovering, you know? I didn’t want her to worry, just wanted her to concentrate on getting better from the operation. For a whole week, I thought she was going to die, and every time I looked at her, that’s what I thought about. She didn’t have a clue.” He laughs, mirthless. “So we go back in for her checkup, and the doctor has good news for us. Stage two, not stage four. Seventy to eighty percent survival rate over five years. He’s all grins, and she starts crying. She found out that her cancer wasn’t as bad as we thought, and she didn’t know till just then that this was good news.”