Shadow Man (33 page)

I stare at him for a moment, letting this sink in. We all do. Finally, I nod. “Thanks, Leo. So—does everyone know what they’re working on?”

I look around. “Good.”

The door to the office opens, breaking the moment. I glance to see who’s coming in, and concern floods me.

Marilyn Gale is standing in the doorway, looking worried. A uniformed policeman is standing next to her, holding a package in his arms.

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I
T CAME AN
hour ago,” she says. “Addressed to you, Agent Barrett, care of me. I figured . . .” she trails off, but we all understand. Who else would be sending something for me to Marilyn’s address? We’re back in the office. Everyone is crowded around the desk, looking at the package while sneaking curious glances at Marilyn. Callie notices the latter, and her exasperation at this seems to overtake her concern about the package.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says. “This is my daughter, Marilyn Gale. Marilyn, meet James, Alan, and Leo, lower functionaries.”

Marilyn grins at this. “Hi,” she says.

“Did you intercept it?” I ask the policeman, a Sergeant Oldfield.

“No, ma’am.” He’s a solid-state-looking guy. Been around, very comfortable being the police, and not cowed by myself or the FBI in general. “Our assignment was to watch the residence. And Ms. Gale when she goes out, of course.” He jerks a thumb at Marilyn. “She came to us with the package, explained her concerns, and asked us to transport her and the package here.”

I turn to Marilyn. “You didn’t open it, did you?”

Her face grows serious again. “No. I didn’t think I should. I mean, I’ve only done my first year in criminology”—I see Alan and Leo ex-
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change glances at this—“but even if I hadn’t, all you have to do is watch some TV to know you don’t mess with possible evidence.”

“That’s good, Marilyn,” I say. I choose my next words with care. I don’t want to frighten her too much, but they have to be said. “That’s not the only reason, though. What if he decided to do something crazy? Like send a letter bomb.”

Her eyes go wide. She gets a little pale. “Oh—I . . . Jesus. I mean, it never occurred to me . . .” She gets paler. Thinking of her baby, I bet.

Callie puts a hand on her shoulder. I see anger and concern in Callie’s eyes. “Nothing to worry about now, honey-love. It was x-rayed by security before you came up, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing they look for.”

Marilyn’s color is coming back. She recovers fast. So then what we have here, I think, is something new and exciting. And maybe not pretty to look at.

“Callie, why don’t you take Marilyn to lunch?”

She gets the message. I’m going to open this up; there could be something in here that Marilyn doesn’t need to see.

“Good idea. Come on, honey-love.” She grabs Marilyn by the arm, moving her toward the door. “Where’s little Steven, by the way?”

“My mom’s watching him. Are you sure you can leave right now?”

“It’s fine,” I say to her, smiling though I don’t feel it inside. “And thanks for bringing this by. If this happens again, call us. Don’t touch the package.”

Her eyes widen again, and she nods. Callie hustles her out.

“Mind if I hang around, ma’am?” Sergeant Oldfield asks. He shrugs.

“I’d like to see what’s in the package. Get a feel for the perp.”

“Sure. As long as you add intercepting packages to your list of duties in the future.” I look at him. “Not a rebuke, just a request.”

He nods. “Already done, ma’am.”

I open a drawer, reach in, and extract some latex gloves, slip them on. Now I focus on the package. It’s another legal-size manila envelope. The familiar block printing in black ink is on the front: ATTN.: AGENT SMOKY

BARRETT. The package is about a half to three quarters of an inch thick.
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I turn it over, check the flap. Not sealed. Just the brad holding it closed. I look up. Everyone is silent, waiting. Might as well open it. The letter is on top. I rifle through the other contents, a brief look. My eyes narrow at the sight of a few pages of printed photos. Each picture shows a woman, naked from the waist up, wearing panties, some tied to chairs, some tied to beds. In every case, a hood is over the woman’s head. Something else is in the envelope, and my heart sinks. A CD. I turn my attention to the letter. What now? I think, bleak.
Greetings, Agent Barrett!

I realize this was circuitous, being sent care of Ms. Gale. But that
served just one purpose: to continue to push my prior point home. That
no one you love is safe, should I decide to reach out and . . . touch
them.

No, this is all for you, Agent Barrett. Please bear with me as I walk
you through it. There is a philosophical basis behind it, some history
you need to understand, if you are to grasp these contents in their en-
tirety.

Do you know what the most searched-for word on the Internet is?
Sex. Keeping that in mind, do you know what one of the other most
sought-after words is? Rape.

With the millions who access the Web, with all that exists upon it, two
of the things most looked for, most desired, are sex and rape.
What does this mean? One could argue, with the demographics of the
Net, that it means there are a million men sitting in their homes right
now, thinking about the subject of rape. All sweaty palms and tents in
their trousers. This is something, is it not?
Now let me take you down another, related path. A new type of Web
site has begun to proliferate on the Internet. Sites devoted to men sharing
their hatred of women with each other. Let us take the site aptly named

“revengeonthebitch.com.” On this Web site, jilted men post compromis-
ing photos of their former girlfriends or wives. Nude photos. Sexual pho-
tos. All with one end in mind: degradation and embarrassment. Below
each photo, others are invited to post their opinions. I’ve enclosed a sam-
ple of this, the first attachment. Give it a once-over.
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I find the attachment he’s referring to. At the top is a picture of a smiling, brown-haired woman. She’s twenty or twenty-five. She’s naked, legs spread for the camera. The caption says:
My stupid, cheating
girlfriend. One skanky fucking slut.
Below it is a listing of responses. I read through them.

CALIFORNIADUDE: WHAT A FUCKING SKANK! BE GLAD SOMEONE

ELSE IS HITTING THAT NASTY PUSSY!

JAKE 28: SHOULD HAVE SLIPPED THAT BITCH SOME ROOFIES AND PASSED HER OFF TO ME AND MY CREW TO BUTT-RAPE HER! SLUT!

RIZZO: ROOFIES RULE!

DANNYBOY: I'D HIT IT!

TNINCH: NICE COOZE. TOO BAD SHE'S SUCH A CUNT.

HUNGNHARD: DO WHAT I DO! SHOVE YOUR COCK IN HER MOUTH AND

TELL HER TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I put it aside. I’ve read enough. The careless hatred is nauseating.

“Wow,” Leo whistles. “That is incredibly fucking disturbing.”

I continue reading.

Revelatory, isn’t it? So, what do we have in our cauldron, then? Let’s
take stock: sex and rape, hatred of women as a pastime. Mix them to-
gether, and what do we get?

An environment perfectly conducive to a meeting of the minds.
Minds like mine, Agent Barrett.

True, most of these minds are puerile, unworthy. But if you are will-
ing to search, as I am, to poke, coddle, cajole . . . you can find a few who
are poised to take that leap to the other side. All they are lacking, in most
instances, is little bit of encouragement. A mentor, if you will.
I feel my stomach beginning to churn. Some part of me thinks I know where this is going.

I believe I’ve laid the groundwork for your full understanding. Now
let’s jump to the photos, shall we? You’ve probably already glanced at
them. Give them a good once-over.

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I do. There are five women in total. I take a closer look. “What do you think?” I ask Alan. “Do the bed and chair look the same in each picture?”

Alan takes the pages, scans them. “Yeah.” He squints, then puts the pages down on my desk, next to each other. He points to the carpet in one. “Look at that.”

I do. I see a stain.

“Then here,” he says, pointing to another one of the pictures. Same stain.

“Shit,” Leo says. “Different women, same guy.”

“But it’s not Jack, is it?” James says, breaking his silence. “Jack’s not the guy. Maybe Jack’s current companion.”

Silence at this. I go back to the letter.

You are a sharp one, Agent Barrett. I’m sure you’ve realized by now,
after poring over these photos, that these young lasses all appear in the
same location. The reason is simple: All five were killed by the same man!
I curse. Part of me knew it, but he had confirmed it. These women were already dead.

Perhaps you, or one of your compatriots, have already deduced the
rest as well. That the man who killed these women is not me. If so, then
let me be the first to give applause.

I found the talented young man who took these pictures in that vast,
dark environment, those wild plains that make up the World Wide Web.
I recognized his hungers and his hatreds, and it did not take long at all
for him to take his leap. To relinquish his last, silly hold on the light and
embrace the dark.

Of course, this could be a hoax on my part, yes? Take a look at the CD
I have enclosed, and when you are done, feel free to call Agent Jenkins in
the New York office of your FBI. Ask him about Ronnie Barnes.
Oh, and if some hope is leaping in your breast that Barnes will pro-
vide you with that lead you yearn for, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,
but Mr. Barnes isn’t with us anymore. Watch the CD. You’ll under-
stand.

Down to the point of it all, as I end this for now. The point remains
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the same: Hunt me. Hunt me well, and remember this: Ronnie Barnes
was just one of so many with those special hungers. And I am always
looking for those meetings of the minds.

From Hell,

Jack Jr.

“Jesus Christ,” Alan says in disgust.

“Interesting,” James muses. “He’s like a living computer virus. That’s what he’s showing us. That he can replicate in others.”