To Kill a Man - Maggie Costello Series 05 (2020)

by Bourne, Sam

  Paul Hagen of Little Rock, Arkansas.

  So it was confirmed. The man Natasha had killed that night in her Georgetown home was her childhood abuser, the older, adoptive brother she had once loved. The name on the death certificate was Jeffrey Todd. But he was Paulie. He was P, the nightly intruder into her sleep, into her bed, into her body.

  As Maggie stopped at a red light on Seventeenth Street, in her half-hallucinating state she could almost see how it might have unfolded. The Hagen parents deciding that the business with Mindy and with her friend at school – Helen – was a shadow they needed to escape. Maggie wondered if it had ever been admitted out loud, between the parents and their son, or whether it remained one of those secret facts that can sometimes exist in families, understood but never acknowledged. Paulie, your mother and I have been thinking. Maybe it would be best for everyone if we made a fresh start. A completely new beginning, far away from here.

  As for the name change, the detectives had filled that in. The paperwork had been filed not in Arkansas but in Kentucky, about a year after the family had moved there. The last existing records for Paul Hagen revealed him to be the subject of an informal police warning, following a complaint from the principal of Barren County High School in Glasgow, Kentucky: Hagen had been accused of following a female student, aged thirteen, home from the school and was said to have initiated a sexual assault on her on a secluded part of the nearby Trojan Trail. Unfortunately for him, but very fortunately for her, he was disturbed by a jogger who saw the incident and asked the girl if she needed help. Paul insisted the two of them were just ‘fooling around’ and the girl refused to press charges. The change of name came soon afterwards.

  Maggie imagined that too, Hagen’s parents realizing – too late – that the young and vulnerable Mindy had been telling the truth. That was if they hadn’t always known, even if they couldn’t bear to admit it, even to themselves. So now they resolved to wipe the slate clean, ridding their son of a past that could catch up with him. Had they worried especially about Mindy? Did they realize that she was a person of uncommon strength? That she had disappeared from Little Rock, leaving not a trace behind, but that one day she would want her revenge?

  Another incoming call from Liz. Maggie pressed ‘Decline’: she needed time to think.

  Somehow Natasha had worked out that, like her, P had taken on a new identity. God knew when it started or how she had done it, but she must have watched the newly minted Jeffrey Todd from afar. In the internet age, that would have suddenly become possible, whether by lurking, anonymous and unseen, on his Facebook page or just alerted whenever his name was mentioned. Maggie could picture Natasha at her screen, monitoring her one-time brother, reading of the arrests, the collapsed trials, the near-misses. The former Mindy Hagen would have seen that ‘Todd’ lived as an adult the way he had as a teenager: as a cruel and violent sexual predator.

  How easily it must have become an obsession, as Natasha saw him evade justice again and again, just as he had when she was little more than a child. Even as she was mastering the law, persuading judges and juries through her command of the system, she would have been consumed with rage that the system seemed powerless in the face of this one criminal: the man, the boy, who had filled her young nights with terror. No wonder she had hatched a plan to administer justice herself, if that was what it took: luring him to her home where he would be caught in the act, once and for all brought to book for the brutal rapist that he was. Except that the plan had gone horribly wrong.

  The phone rang one more time, just as she was turning into Massachusetts Avenue. At last, she surrendered.

  ‘Hi, Liz.’

  ‘Mags, listen. Where are you?’ Her sister seemed to be panting.

  ‘I’m in DC. Don’t tell me you’ve taken up running?’

  ‘Where in DC?’

  ‘I’m on my way home.’

  ‘Don’t go in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t go in.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Listen, were you in Maine yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

  ‘In somewhere called—’ She could hear her sister fiddling with her phone. ‘Penobscot?’

  ‘Yes, how the fuck do you—’

  ‘And you rented a car from Portland airport?’

  ‘Yes. What is this, Liz?’

  ‘Have you been on Twitter lately?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean, not that much. I was driving mostly.’

  ‘And you never search for yourself, do you? You stopped looking at your mentions, didn’t you, after the whole White House thing?’

  ‘Please, Liz. What the hell is this?’

  ‘Pull over and then look up a hashtag. It’s #FindingMC. It’s a spillover from Gab.’

  ‘That far-right thing?’

  ‘Have you pulled over?’

  ‘Hold on.’ Maggie parked up. She could feel another wave of exhaustion building up, ready to crash over her. Her heart was beginning to pound. That edge in her sister’s voice, she’d heard it before. It came when she sensed danger.

  ‘All right, I’ve pulled over.’

  ‘So someone started it on Gab. Anonymous account, identified only with the male symbol. You know, the circle with the arrow?’

  ‘Started what?’

  ‘Some kinds of “men’s rights” activist. From there it spread. There’s a whole movement online. Anyway, it was a call-out, asking people to look out for you and post pictures of you, wherever you’re spotted.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I know. It’s completely sick. It’s like mass surveillance by social media. But it’s taken off. People have been sending pictures of you . . . Shit.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘There’s another one. Were you just at the . . . what is that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘DC Police headquarters. Were you there seven minutes ago?’

  ‘Yes. How do you know—’

  ‘There’s a picture of you, getting into your car. It’s stamped nine forty-one am.’

  ‘Christ. And does it say anything?’

  ‘People are putting up the picture, and then the hashtag. FindingMC.’

  Maggie put her head in her hands. She was trying to think, but the lightness was rolling in and out like surf on a beach. She desperately needed to sleep. Finally, a question she had been trying to formulate came to her. ‘What did it say, the first tweet or whatever?’

  ‘I think it’s the first, I can’t be sure. But if it is, hang on, I’ve got it open on another . . . Here, the original message on Gab said: “Fellow warriors, mark the face of this woman. Her name is Maggie Costello and she is covering for a man-killer. You are invited to spot her in the wild, then post pictures of her. Use the hashtag FindingMC.” That last thing is all one word, FindingMC.’

  ‘And now it’s on Twitter?’

  ‘Kind of a spillover, yeah. Still mainly on Gab. Bit on Facebook as well. Maybe Instagram. TikTok. There was some video of you, buying fish or something from a stall?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seafood. Like from a shack. In Maine?’

  ‘Yes, OK. Jesus, Liz, there was no one around when I did that. Video, did you say?’

  ‘Like, twenty seconds. No sound. Too much wind. Wobbly picture, like it had been done on a phone with maximum zoom. Could have been taken from a car. Or anywhere really. The thing is, Mags, what’s this about? Why would they be doing this?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve worked it out. You saw what they said. “Covering for a man-killer.”’

  ‘I sort of guessed when you got me to look up that number. So it’s true. Jesus. You’re working for—’

  ‘Yes. That’s who I’m helping.’

  ‘She killed that man, right?’

  ‘She was defending herse
lf from a known rapist and murderer, Liz.’

  ‘So why would all these men be on your case?’

  ‘Why do you think, Liz? Because these men think it’s OK for men to rape women. They think men should be allowed to do it. They’re angry that someone stopped them. They see a woman and a rapist, and they side with the rapist. That’s what’s going on here. You just need to open your fucking eyes, Liz.’

  There was a moment of silence, far worse than the response Maggie would have expected. Her sister would normally snap back, Well, don’t bite my fucking head off, you daft bitch, but now she said nothing. Another wave of pure fatigue, coloured bright white, crashed over Maggie’s head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Liz. I’m just so exhausted. And frightened. I’m sorry.’

  More silence. Then Maggie spoke again.

  ‘What should I do, Lizzie?’ She could hear the smallness of her own voice.

  There was a rustle at the other end. Maggie wondered if her younger sister was reaching for a tissue, to wipe away tears. Then she heard her.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m on Massachusetts and—’

  ‘Are you parked near a place called Au Bon Pain?’

  Maggie looked through her windscreen and saw nothing ahead or on the left. But then, directly through her right window, she could see the name of that lunch place. She was parked right in front of it.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Two pictures of you parked outside it have gone up in the last five minutes. You’re wearing that zip-up jacket.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Fuck, there’s another one.’

  Maggie scoped the area, eyes left and right, trying to search out a man aiming a phone in her direction. ‘So someone’s watching me right now?’

  ‘Not someone, Maggie. The pictures are from different angles. It’s several people.’

  Maggie hit the lock button on the car door. She could feel her heart beginning to bang. ‘I’m going to drive home.’

  ‘How far away are you?’

  ‘Maybe five minutes.’

  ‘OK. Stay on the line. I might have an idea.’

  Maggie pulled out slowly. She was scanning the sidewalk, looking at the faces of the people walking past, especially those holding phones. Now she shot a glance to the other side of the street. It must have been from there or thereabouts that at least one of the photos Liz had described had been taken. What about that guy, looking straight ahead, staring even—

  A car horn screamed through the air and straight into Maggie’s central nervous system. Reflexively, she slammed on the brakes. The horn didn’t stop, because as she had pulled out – staring at that man across the street, rather than watching the road – she had come within an inch of ramming into a Subaru advancing in the next lane. He’d come to an emergency stop and, clearly shaken, was now glaring at her. He opened his door and got out, coming towards her for a confrontation. She had to make an instant decision.

  She hit the gas and pulled away, leaving the man to issue a cloud of ‘Fuck you’s as she sped off.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, Maggie. I’m still here.’ A pause. ‘Please try to drive safely. Tell me when you’re nearly there. But don’t get too near. There might be people waiting for you. Park a block away.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Make that two blocks away.’

  ‘They know my home address?’

  ‘They might do.’

  Maggie remembered the intruder, the fantasy rapist, who knew where she lived thanks to that sewer of a website. She hadn’t told Liz about that episode, and not only because it would have revealed who she was currently working for. She had held it back for the same reason she withheld so much about her working life from the only person in the world she truly regarded as family: because it would have terrified her. Still, if her address was known on that forum for rape freaks, it was bound to be known to whichever crazed incel bastard had started this online hunt.

  She parked the car one block east and one block north of where she lived. She looked left and right, and then upward, at the windows of the first-floor apartments. One woman moving potted plants on a narrow roof terrace; nothing else.

  ‘OK, I’m walking now.’

  ‘All right. So Maggie, I need you to open Twitter.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Liz. I’m not going to start tweeting.’

  ‘Trust me, Maggie. It’s not tweeting. Put me on speaker and hit the “Compose” button.’

  Maggie opened the app and had to look for the ‘Compose’ button. Truth was, she had almost never posted a tweet. She was a ‘lurker’. She would hang around, reading other people’s tweets, ‘monitoring the debate’, as they used to call it in the White House, but rarely making a peep. She preferred it that way.

  ‘That sort of feather quill thing?’

  ‘That’s it. Press that.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You’re not there yet, are you?’

  ‘One block away.’

  ‘You’ve pressed the quill thing?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve done it.’

  ‘Now, Mags, can you see an icon that looks like a camera? Bottom left, but not the very bottom?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Hit that. What can you see?’

  ‘It’s showing me my feet as I walk.’

  ‘Good, so the camera’s working. Now, can you see two words at the bottom of the screen?’

  ‘Yes. “Capture” and “Live”.’

  ‘Exactly. Only when you’re ready, I want you to hold the camera up in front of you, so that it’s showing the street ahead. As close to your head as you can, so what it’s showing is your point of view. Have a go at that. Don’t press anything! But just do that.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Like you’re the camera. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s seeing. Yes?’

  ‘Yes. Now what?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘About a hundred yards from my building.’

  ‘Good. When you’re ready, take a deep breath and hit the “Live” button. That will cut me off, so you won’t be able to hear me. But I’ll be following you on Twitter. How many followers do you have?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Hardly—’

  ‘I’ll check. OK, that’s good. Nearly fifty thousand. You got that huge lift after the whole White House saga. Even better, lots of media people follow you. Fuck, that senator follows you. Whatshisname, Harrison. So they’ll be watching. You ready?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Make sure no one can see exactly where your apartment is, OK? Keep the picture generic. It’s their faces we want to see. Not the building number. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Remember, when you’re ready, press “Live”. Bye, Maggie.’

  Maggie ended the call and shoved her right hand, still gripping the phone, deep into her bag, so that it wouldn’t be seen. She kept on walking.

  Perhaps twenty-five yards stood between her and her home when she saw the first one. He was younger than she was expecting, pale and acned, a student who looked as if he’d only just started cooking for himself, not graduating beyond beans straight from the can. She saw him do it, raising the phone, snapping her, then fiddling with the buttons. He was very clearly posting a picture of her.

  Ten yards now and she could see a man loitering by the front door, as if he were a maître’d poised to greet guests at his restaurant. A half-second later, she clocked the phone in his right hand, which he now raised to his face and click. He was white and, she’d have guessed, in his early fifties.

  As she got nearer, she saw that there was another man perhaps two doors down. Now
that he had seen her, he too was advancing, also holding up his phone. There was some movement to her right. She swivelled to catch the sight of a fourth man crossing the road: bearded, hipsterish, wearing a black beanie. Once he had reached the kerb, when he was no more than a few feet away from her, he raised his phone to chest height and took her picture.

  At last she was by her own front door. With her left hand she began to rummage in her bag for the keys, but her right was still holding her phone and she didn’t want to let go.

  So now there were four of them, four men who had somehow acquired her home address. Now, wordlessly, they moved towards each other, forming a huddle, a phalanx with the oldest man facing her. They were blocking her path, standing between her and her front door.

  The hipster spoke first. Politely, in a voice that suggested he was simply confirming a dinner reservation, he asked, ‘Maggie Costello?’

  The older man didn’t wait for an answer. He said, ‘So you’re the bitch working for that whore who killed a man.’

  The hipster picked up from there. ‘Don’t go crying rape now, sweetheart. Just because we want to fuck you up doesn’t mean we want to fuck you.’ Maggie noticed his right hand was balled into a fist. She didn’t need Liz to say it, but she heard her sister’s voice in her head all the same. Now.

  She pulled the phone out of the bag, held it up and, though her fingers were trembling, pressed the button marked ‘Live’. She spoke.

  ‘Hi everyone. This is Maggie Costello. And this seems to be the welcoming party that’s come to greet me at my apartment in Washington, DC.’ In the frame were two of the quartet, acne boy and the middle-aged guy. ‘You may have heard – these men clearly have – there’s a hashtag doing the rounds, encouraging people to take pictures of me wherever I am and to post them online. I think it’s meant to intimidate me.’

  The youngest, also perhaps the quickest to grasp what was happening, looked aghast and then, a second or two later, silently moved out of shot. He began walking down the street, rapidly breaking into a jog. Maggie was tempted to call after him, but instead kept her focus on the three who were now in the live picture. Unexpectedly, the bottom of the screen began to be dotted with small, floating hearts, rising like bubbles in an aquarium.