“I really think this is what my focus should be on right now. We got hundreds of letters here and I wouldn't feel right about just passing them off to somebody else. I know this guy. I know what to look for.”
Mathews shot the men a look but fuck Mathews and fuck what he thinks. There was no way Jeremy was going to set foot in that house again.
“Alright. Keep me up to speed with that,” Costa said and they were out the door.
Once they were gone he sat there for a full thirty minutes trying to calm himself down. Flashes of the night before exploded behind his eye lids at unpredictable intervals. Obsessively he scrubbed his memory for any misstep that might have been made. An un-gloved touch on a door handle or wall. A hair that may have fallen from the hood. A scratch from the woman that may have his DNA under her nails. Endlessly the horrible events of the night looped in his mind until he started to fear he would never be able to un-see it; that he would never be able to turn it off. In any event he had no criminal record, and there was no record of his DNA or prints anywhere and so it wouldn't even matter if some of it where to be discovered unless he became a suspect at some point. He figured if that were to happen the game would already be lost anyways.
If he got in his car right then he could be clear across the state by midnight. He could find a quite little motel room somewhere in a white trash dead end town and drink a bottle of scotch and take a suicide bath. Warm water turned red with his blood, his skin wrinkled and slack, the wounds down his wrists would look like fish gills, his body rigid and buoyant and peacefully still. He could see it so clearly. That was how it had to end. It was the only sure way to end it. But no, he had to focus. There was no way of knowing when he would get another video. He had to stay strong for Charlie. If that was his fate then he would leave it as a reward for catching Mister. And when he did catch him, he was going to kill him.
He dug in and got to work. If he just stayed busy then maybe he would be able to stop reliving the horror in his mind. He opened the box and thumbed through the letters.
'Dear Victor. I want you to know you're not alone.' the first one began. 'I know this is going to sound crazy, but when I saw you on TV I knew that we had been together in another life'.
Hybristo-fucking-philia, Jeremy thought as he quickly scanned the letter and moved on to the next one.
He had known about this phenomenon for a long time – since school he guessed- but he had never actually read the correspondences before. He got through them as fast as he could. Marriage proposals, offers of explicit conjugal visits. There were quite a few vitriolic rants, condemnations to hell, letters from relatives of his victims. These were difficult to read, but didn't turn his stomach as much as the others. Costa was right. These sick bitches should be put on some kind of list. Some of them would learn about playing with fire the hard way, he was sure. It took the entire morning and into the afternoon for him to finally find what he was looking for... he hoped.
'Hello Victor. I hope you're doing okay. Sorry it has been so long since I've written. I would have sooner if I could. I know you understand. I am okay. Considering. I wish I could say that I had something to tell you but I don't. I can't thank you enough for everything... I know how awful it must have all been for you.
Do you remember that time we went to that hot dog place and that guy was hitting on me? And you got to mad. It scared me a little how mad you got. But it kind of made me feel safe too. I knew you would protect me. That you wouldn't let anyone hurt me. I never really thanked you for that. Thank you. And for all other things you had to do too...”
The letter than went on for sometime but he knew from the start that this was the needle in the haystack he was hoping for. Proof of intimate knowledge, a relationship prior to his incarnation, gratitude for something difficult he had done. He scanned down to the bottom of the page. It was signed simply: Danny.
Scooping up the box he rushed out into the hallway and hurried to the lead analysts’ desk. Her name was Nancy something or other, she seemed nice enough but he had yet to speak to her besides the brief introduction Costa had given them on his first day. Jeremy dropped the box on her desk startling her.
“Okay, I got something,” he exclaimed a little too anxious for his own liking and took a deep breath. He flattened the letter on the desk in front of her.
“I need you to cross reference all these letters for a person of interest named Danny. I'm sorry there's so many. I think there's another box back in the debrief room too actually. Once you've found all the letters with any reference of the name Danny or Daniela or any variation of, I need you to compile them chronologically based on any contextual indication in the letters themselves or by postal information if it is still in the original envelopes. He stopped and waited for her to indicate she understood.
“I will get right on it.”
“I need a team on this. This is priority one,” He said and began to walk away but then stopped and added. “Oh and get a graphologist on it. I need to know if they were written by the same person. And you know what. We need them all read. I want all the letters that seemed to be written by anyone who knew him personally before his incarceration, pulled and copied.
“Understood,” She said and the Jeremy was hurrying away again. He stopped back at his desk but realized his heart was beating so fast he felt faint. He walked to the restroom with forced calmness, praying silently to a God he never believed in that this lead would pan out to something concrete before he received another video.
He entered a bathroom stall, closed the door and as quietly as he could, cried into his hands.
***
Costa stood at the door way to the child's bedroom watching the CSI's swab and sweep the room for DNA. The FBI and the LAPD were getting their asses handed to them on this thing. Costa thought about of all the lives this guy claimed. He pictured how crowded the hallway and room would look with all of them packed inside with him. Their dead milky eyes staring blankly at the newest members of the family and then up at him as if to say, well? What are you going to do about it big FBI hot shot?
He had been chasing killers and perverts for a long time now and it took its toll. The years had become heavier but he had never second guessed himself. He always had felt this was the right thing to do. There was a price to pay, everyone in law enforcement learned that eventually and he was willing to pay that price if he could retire one day knowing the world was a little bit better of a place for his efforts. But now- well now he just wasn't sure anymore. If he knew one day he would be involved in something like this...
“Suffocation. Seems a little gentle for Mister,” Mathews said from the doorway.
“Well there was nothing gentle about that,” Costa said nodding towards the hallway, where the mother's corpse lay, her eyes removed and placed under her feet.
“Still. The kid is suffocated. Not either of the adults. Shows a certain level of compassion,” Mathews persisted, which drew an incredulous look from one of the CSIs “Eyes not removed either.”
Costa looked down at the young female CSI who was still shaking her head at Mathews referring to this is as compassionate. What smoldered in his stomach like a burning piece of charcoal was that he was right. This was compassionate for Mister.
“Let's let these good people do their jobs. We can talk about it back at the office.”
They made their way through the crowd of police officers and detectives and outside to where there were even more gathered. The house had been taped off and curious neighbours lined the street, eyes wide, hands over their mouths, some talking to reporters, others crying.
“You think Foster was right?” Mathews asked as they made their way to the car.
“I think you think he is.”
“I think maybe he was yeah.”
“See? He isn’t so bad.”
“I got no problem with him.”
“Sure you don't,” Costa said. “We need to figure out if someone has been abducted since the Summers girl.”<
br />
“Maybe Mister is blackmailing someone close to the girl.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was Mister. Something could have spooked him. Made him leave before he finished the job with the boy.”
“Maybe,”
“Yup. Maybe,” Costa sighed. “Maybe, maybe, maybe.”
CHAPTER 10
Jeremy had scoured the case files twice over by time he finally had to admit to himself that he was not going to find any reference to a Danny in them. Mr. And Mrs. Matherport maintained a residence in Wilshire. Perhaps they know who Danny was. Hopefully she or he was a relative.
He hadn't slept since he had become a murderer. Though there were times his brain found a kind of off-nes. Dead zones of thought which his mind passed through from time to time, at least cooling down the computational function of his brain enough for it to carry even if in a battered, diminished state.
He had gone home to take a shower before going to see the Matherport’s and in it he passed into one of these dead zones. He wasn't aware of the hot water scalding his back turning his skin red. He couldn't hear the dog barking outside or the ambulance's plaintive wailing as it rushed by to some life or death situation. And then, just as it came unannounced it left in the same fashion and he became regretfully aware of his body and his own presence and his life.
He got dressed and went to the spare bedroom. There were still drops of blood on the floor and he retrieved some paper towel from the kitchen to clean it. He got down on his knees and scrubbed his son's blood, trying his best not to picture Charlie's face all cut and swollen and mutilated. Maybe he should have killed the family that first night. But would it really have mattered? How did he know he wasn't hurting him right that second? Or, Jesus, even rapping him. Then he found himself in his room, popping some xanex, sitting on the corner of the bed until it kicked before he went back to finish cleaning the floor.
The Matherport residence was in a little court of near-well-doers in an upper middle class neighbourhood two blocks off of Holliday Boulevard. It wasn't until he got out of the car that it occurred to him they may be grieving their son. Not that it mattered. This was something he had to do. Besides, he could imagine them being relieved that it was finally over. To be the parents of a serial killer must come with a pretty strong sense of guilt. The upbringings of most serial killers were punctuated by abuse and neglect. This was one of those strange cases where that was absent in the offender's childhood. Or it had been strange until he realized the truth of the matter. Still, Victor was no choir boy but he couldn't say for certain if his psychotic tendencies would ever manifest in murder without Mister's involvement.
He got out of the car, made the short walk up the tiled steps, past the well manicured lawn and rang the bell.
“Yeah?” The man of the house asked opening the door and regarding Jeremy suspiciously. He was average height, with a solid build that seemed impressive for a man his age but Jeremy could sense by the constant forward lean of his spine, and the way he held his shoulders together and down like he was trying to hug himself, that he was less functional that he appeared.
“Mr. Matherport?” Jeremy asked reaching for his credentials.
“Who's asking?” The man returned equal parts annoyance and forced politeness.
“My name is- uh – Agent Foster. I'm with the FBI.”
“I see. Well he's dead now. Nothing left to say, is there?”
“Yes, well, I have a few questions if you don't mind Mr. Matherport.”
It was clear he wanted to tell him to go fuck himself but his better nature prevailed and he invited him inside. The house was dim save for the natural light which entered through the windows. It was quite, peaceful, like he remembered his own grandparent’s house being when he was a child. Nothing of value really, nothing flashy, hand made quilts hung on the back of the decade old but pristine sofa, laid just so.
“So what are these questions?” Mr. Matherport asked once they had seated themselves in the living room.
“Well first of all let me say I am sorry for your loss. Loosing a child is not easy under and circumstance.”
“Actually, him dying has been the easiest part of it all. He was unwell, obviously. Maybe now he can be at peace.”
“Well... I'm sorry to bother you here at your home. Victor had a number of letters in his cell written to him by someone named Danny. We don't know his or more probably her last name but they are a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. It seems he was quite close with Victor. Maybe even a relative?”
“Danny?” Mr. Matherport repeated as though uttering the name may conjure up the appropriate memories. “Danny.... Danny. Well he has a cousin Danny. My wife's nephew by marriage.”
A flash of hope sped up Jeremy's heart rate. He leaned forward in his chair.
“Were he and Victor close?”
“Victor wasn't close with anybody Agent Foster.”
Which didn't surprise Jeremy to hear in the least but then there was a glimmer in Mr. Matherport’s eye. A turning of something in his features which indicated some memory or thought was coming over him.
“Wait... Foster. Jeremy Foster?” He asked.
This was a mistake, Jeremy suddenly realized.
“Yes.”
“You wrote that book about him.”
“Yes, yes I did. Though I want to assure you this has nothing to do what that or anything else other than a current FBI Investigation.”
“Regarding Mister? The real Mister.”
“Now why would you say that Mr. Matherport? The real Mister. What do you mean by that?”
“What I mean Agent Foster, is that this didn't start with Victor and it didn't end with him either.”
“Do you know something I don't?”
“I doubt it,” the man said and folded his hands over top his belly. “You probably knew him better then anyone. Better than maybe even himself.”
“I knew your son very well. Or at least I thought I did. Something has recently come to light which has made me not so sure of that anymore and it has to do with someone named Danny. And yes, this is about the real Mister. So any help you can provide us with would be greatly appreciated. It may even save lives Mr. Matherport.”
The grandfather clock in the hallway donged and echoed through the house. Mr. Matherport waited until it rang three time and stopped before he responded.
“If you tell me why you're looking for him, I'll tell you what I know.”
“I'm not entitled to talk about the details of the investigation Mr. Matherport.” Jeremy insisted trying to remain genial.
“How much money did you make from that book?” He immediately fired back.
This really was a mistake. Moramarco or Costa could have handled this but he was in for the duration now. He preferred answering his first question. He really shouldn't answer either of them but shouldn't was playing a big factor in his decisions lately.
“We've recently come to suspect that your son wasn't a copy-cat killer at all. We think he may have been blackmailed into committing the murders. Blackmailed by threatening the life of this Danny.”
“Really?” the old man said leaning forward and cradling his bald head in his hand.
“Yes. Really.”
He took a long time to think that over and Jeremy couldn't help but imagine what his brain would look like mashed into the carpet if he plucked the lamp off the end table and bludgeoned him with it until he cried and shit himself and died. Catching himself he cleared his throat and lifted his hands palms up as if too say: Well?
“I doubt his cousin is the person you are looking for. Then again I'm doubtful that person exists at all. Victor never gave a damn about anyone. That's the truth.”
“He gives a damn about this person.”
“So you're saying my son was forced to do the things he did?”
Jeremy wondered if the truth of it would make this easier or more difficult for them. He decided it would probably only make it worst. People generally were
not comfortable with degrees of guilt. Black and white, stark contrast between crime and convention. That's what people needed for their piece of mind. But then again, you want to take your child's side no matter what. Even when there is no possible way you reasonably could, you hope that a reason like this would arise.
“Yes. That is exactly what I think.”
“I find that hard to believe. Victor has always been unwell. I always saw it. There was a… darkness in him.”
Mr. Matherport's eyes went fuzzy at some random point on the wall, clearly reliving some uncomfortable memory. Normally Jeremy would be curious what it was. It was an acute curiosity of the human psyche and especially the psyches of the disturbed that was the driving force of his career but at the present he didn't have the patience or the inclination to give a fuck.
“Mr. Matherport? This Danny. The cousin. Have you seen him lately?”
“Oh, not since Christmases, I suppose.”
“I'm going to need his contact number.”
Leaving the Matherport residence, Jeremy sat in his car, cranked the AC, dialled the contact number for cousin Danny. It went straight to voice mail. As it did for four more immediate attempts. He called the office and hit the appropriate extension.
“Nancy. Hey it's Foster...No, no. It's not about that. I have a number for you. It's for a Danny Smith. He's a cousin of Victor Matherport. I need confirmation of his whereabouts immediately. I'm texting you his place of residence now. If you can't get him on the line have someone get over there and get eyes on him. Thanks Nancy.”
He started the car and headed to Katie's.
CHAPTER 11
Mathews wasn't planning on following Foster when he pulled back into the parking lot at the FBI field station. All he was planning on doing was calling up a nurse he knew down in Long beach and hopefully get her to come over to his place for the night. But when he saw Foster's BMW pull out from the parking lot in front of him he found himself following him towards freeway on ramp. He wondered if Mr. smarty pants knew how to spot a tail. He did not like the guy and it must have been more obvious than he intended it to be, he realized, recalling Costa's reaction earlier when he lied and said he had no problems with Foster. Sure you don't. Costa had said with a snicker. He would have his ass if he ever found out he was looking at one of their own but at the end of the day this was his world, Foster was just a tourist. Meaning, he would never be the wiser. He may have been a big brain up at VICAP but he was no field man.
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