by Kenneth Eade
Williams' lips flapped and Jack was beaming inside. The little nerd confessed to the entire murder-for-hire scheme. One case down, one to go. He, Flusher, Finegan and Truth Seeker had all pooled their money to put out the contract on Bekker. After they had contacted the site, they were advised that they would be meeting a “representative” from Erasure.onion. “But they wouldn’t tell us where the meeting would be,” he said.
Jack left Williams' office, then hung around the mall until he left work so he could follow him home. He had a snack at Hooters, then watched the Minnesota Vikings cheerleaders put on a free show in the Rotunda. It was a lot more fun to watch a bunch of “barely legal” cheerleaders jump around in their flimsy purple and white uniforms than a big-breasted waitress sling hash in a T-shirt.
At exactly five o’clock, Williams scurried out of his office like a little rat, looking around nervously. Jack tracked him from a safe distance, but could soon see that he was not alone in his efforts. Also following Williams was a man of average height, dressed inconspicuously in blue jeans, sneakers and a beige T-shirt. He moved with the agility of a cat stalking its prey.
Jack followed the follower as he stalked Williams through the back service corridors to the mall and all the way to the parking lot. He kept a safe distance from them when they got to the lot, watching and taping them with his mini-video camera as Williams got into his white Toyota Prius and the follower got into a grey pickup truck. As the Prius started to move, Jack looked around quickly for a vehicle to use for pursuit. He spotted a nearby Yamaha Seca, ran to it, and quickly hot-wired it. Jack zoomed down the parking ramp and spotted Williams’s white Prius and the pursuing pickup as they turned onto 24th Avenue. He whipped out his cell phone and called Angela.
“Angela, I’m in pursuit of the murder suspect.”
“So am I,” Angela said, surprised.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Angela had been watching Myron Talbot leave the Cadillac sales office when she noticed a man in dark clothing who seemed to be observing Talbot throw his cigarette down and walk to a nearby beige Ford on the street. On a hunch, she picked up the cigarette and bagged it as evidence, then got into her own car, which was parked half a block down.
Talbot pulled his red Cadillac CTS out of the dealer’s parking lot and turned left on San Carlos Street. As if magnetized, the beige Ford took off after him, and Angela had just begun to follow them when Jack had called.
“But I thought you were in Minneapolis?”
“I am,” said Jack.
“Then how can you be following the suspect when I have him, right now, in San Jose?” Angela asked, as the CTS turned right on Market Street with the beige Ford close behind it.
“There must be more than one killer,” said Jack.
“Or one of them is working for the other. Either way, I think these guys’ time is running out. If they’re being followed, either one or both of them could be struck down at any moment.”
“I think so, too. What should we do?”
“I can only speak for myself. I’m not supposed to be doing this, but if I see something, I can report it to local law enforcement. So far, it’s just one guy following another one.”
“Same here.”
“The problem is, once there’s something to report, I’m afraid it’s going to be another murder.”
The CTS got onto the I-280 south and Angela followed the beige Ford as it pursued Talbot.
***
Jack kept the Yamaha in the right lane as he followed the Prius and the pickup behind it. They exited and the Prius finally landed in the driveway of a residential area of single family homes. Williams got out of the car and went into his house, but the pickup and its occupant stayed idle. Jack’s time was limited, as he was on a motorcycle and was sure to be spotted by the stranger in the pickup the longer he stayed. Besides, someone was bound to miss the motorcycle or, worse, report it stolen. Jack parked the bike, tried to blend into the neighborhood, and hoped that nobody – especially the guy in the pickup – would see him.
On the other side of the country, Angela’s subjects exited in Milpitas, also into a residential area, where Talbot parked the CTS in his garage and went into the house. Angela stayed about two blocks behind, wishing that she could have had an early dinner, as it looked like it was going to be a long night.
***
Brent was enjoying his freedom and trying to insure that he would have more of it to come. Sitting on the sofa with his laptop on his lap and Calico at his side, he feverishly searched the Internet for clues. He brainstormed all the search words he could and discovered that on the Deep Web (or the “Dark Web”, as it was commonly known), murder for hire was not uncommon. Using the TOR browser, Brent went down the Internet’s rabbit hole into the sleazy world of the Dark Web.
I don’t know anything about you and you don’t know anything about me. Your victim will simply cease to exist. And it will always look like an accident or a suicide.
Reading the passage sent a tingling chill from Brent’s tailbone to the tips of his fingers. There were several murder-for-hire sites, and Bitcoin seemed to be the preferred method of payment. It was untraceable. There was even a crowdfunding site which accepted anonymous contributions for political assassinations, offering the spoils to any killer who could prove he had done the deed. Brent knew from Angela that at least one of the sites had to be run by undercover FBI and DEA agents posing as hit men, but he didn’t know which one. From anonymous bullying to anonymous murder for hire, the Internet had something for every sick taste.
Richard Hannaford had secured the body of David Marsen for a second autopsy by Dr. Jaime Orozco. Brent’s theory was that the position of his fingerprints on the knife would be consistent with someone pulling the knife out, but not the actual stabbing. It was a far reach, but the only possible bit of physical evidence that they had that could point the finger away from Brent being the killer.
***
The mysterious follower in the pickup truck left right after sunset, and Jack revved up the bike and went back to the mall to replace it. He reached the parking ramp and retraced his steps to the floor where he had found the motorcycle. There were several electric mall security vehicles, a couple of guards on Segways, and a police vehicle with two uniformed cops. It looked like the police were taking a report. Just as Jack turned around to get the hell out of there, one of the guards on a Segway yelled, “Hey! Stop there!” and, , followed by the second Segway guard, took off after Jack.
Oh, great! Ex-LAPD, ex-FBI agent gets caught with stolen motorcycle by Paul Blart, mall cop.
The Segways were a good match for the motorcycle in the twists and turns of the parking ramp, but they wouldn’t be able to keep up with Jack on the open road. Jack just hoped that the exit wasn’t blocked so he could lose them. With each turn, he looked over his shoulder only to see the Segways were still on his tail. They must have been the new super-charged models, capable of going up to 25 miles per hour. He leaned into the turns like a motorcycle racer, which allowed him to put distance between himself and the Segways.
Luckily the exit wasn’t blocked, and Jack flew out of it. He wasn’t being followed by the police, as best as he could tell (High speed chase of motorcycle thief results in capture of ex-FBI agent.). He would find a place to wipe down and dump the bike, and would then double back to the mall to pick up his rental car.
Angela’s evening was longer, but less eventful. Her subject had waited outside Talbot’s house until about midnight, and then just left. Angela stayed for an hour longer in case he came back or in case Talbot had another “visitor.” After the initial promise and excitement, the two cross-country surveillances came up flat. Her replacement, Paul Beeker, a private detective from San Jose, arrived at 1 a.m. Beeker would sit vigil outside Talbot’s house until he went to work, then tail him there. Jack would also place someone outside Williams' house early the next morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Angela’s connecting fl
ight from LAX landed a little after 8:30. Brent waited in the arrivals area with a bouquet of yellow roses. Angela trudged through the double glass doors looking like a weary soldier, but she smiled when she saw Brent and his peace offering.
“Is this supposed to make up for the fact that I spent my vacation days on a stakeout instead of a beach in Maui?” she asked as she took the flowers and kissed Brent.
“No. It’s just because I love you. And I want you to know I’ve been behaving. No interaction: just Internet research. These murder-for-hire sites are pretty scary.”
What was scarier was the anonymity of it all: an untraceable contact on an untraceable page and payment made in Bitcoin, so it was impossible to follow the money. No meeting with the tattooed Hell’s Angels leader with the skull tattoo and bent nose: just push a button and kill someone. It was as impersonal as the Internet itself, the system responsible for connecting you to long-lost people in your life (as well as many new ones; none of whom you will ever see).
***
Dr. Jaime Orozco swiped a blob of mayonnaise off the corner of his mouth with his tongue as he munched on his ham and cheese sandwich and began to study the Medical Examiner’s report on the autopsy of David Marsen, prior to his own examination. Marsen was an adult male post office retiree, aged 55, with brown, medium-length thinning hair and hazel eyes. No pathological history. Orozco examined the surface of the body. No significant scars or tattoos. Looked like he had his appendix out at one time, though.
Orozco examined the knife wound carefully. Marsen was stabbed once in the left side of the back. The wound was approximately six inches long, and had pierced the kidney and the renal artery. The bleeding of the rental artery was the cause of death. It appeared that the wound was vertically oriented, meaning that the assailant had thrust the knife upward during the attack. Looks like it could be a professional, thought Orozco. The killer obviously knew how to strike a fatal blow with one hit.
Orozco examined the photographs and reports on the murder weapon as he waited for Kevin Lawler, Brent’s forensics expert, for a consultation on the knife’s trajectory and the fingerprint evidence. Brent’s entire life rested in their four hands.
Kevin Lawler, the forensics expert, was tall and skinny; the Laurel to Dr. Orozco’s Hardy. They had worked together before and both knew Brent very well. Lawler was able to examine the knife itself and take his own photos, as well as forensic digital imaging, to compile a detailed 3D model complete with every detail, which could be rotated to examine every surface of the knife, including the fingerprints. Lawler inserted the disc into Dr. Orozco’s computer and manipulated the action on the screen.
“It’s almost better than examining the object itself,” said Lawler as he demonstrated how he could rotate the image of the knife and blow up portions that would otherwise be visible only in a microscope.
“Fascinating!” replied Orozco. “Do you think we could capture a 3D image of the body wound generated by an MRI and then merge the two in a composite model to show what really happened?”
“I think we can take CT scan and MRI images and create a 3D model – a cyber-corpse – and we can view the injuries from any angle we want and from any part of the body we want, just like this knife.”
Orozco and Lawler initially agreed that the angle of the fingerprints that appeared on the knife were not consistent with the grip that would result in the amount of force that could have made such a single penetration wound, which went through cutaneous tissue and muscle to a depth of six inches, in an upward thrust. Orozco had to begin the MRI and CT scans immediately to formulate the model. He didn’t have much time, but once the scans were done, the model would document all the forensic evidence even after the body had decomposed or been cremated.
Richard Hannaford showed up for the revelatory moment not in his usual three piece uniform for court, but in jeans and a T-shirt. They almost didn’t recognize him.
“Richard! You’re just in time,” said Lawler. Dr. Orozco’s chubby cheeks stretched into a smile.
“Yes, Richard. Let me show you the fatal wound, then Kevin will show you the 3D computer image of the knife.”
“Couldn’t I just see the computer image of both?” said Richard, wrinkling his nose.
“Exactly our thinking!” said Orozco. “We’re doing a full body scan.”
“And it will be filled with the color of the organs and tissue…” said Lawler.
“A virtual corpse!” said Orozco, not trying to mask his excitement. “Now, look here, Richard,” he said as he opened up the body and shone a light into the wound. Hannaford recoiled in disgust at the sight.
“Gentlemen, I’m very happy that you’re both excited about your findings, but could you just tell me about them?”
“Oh, Richard, that wouldn’t be any fun!” said Orozco.
“No, no fun at all,” said Lawler, shaking his head.
“Gentlemen, I’m an orator, not a scientist.”
“Come on, Richard. He can’t hurt you – he’s dead!” said Orozco, erupting in mutual laughter with Lawler.
Hannaford placed his handkerchief over his nose and reluctantly watched Orozco demonstrate the path of the knife that had caused the fatal wound. Then he and Lawler explained, with the use of the 3D knife model, how they thought the evidence showed that the fingerprints on the handle of the knife were consistent with pulling it out, rather than shoving it in.
“Then, as every good prosecutor would hypothecate, couldn’t the assailant who thrust the knife been the same one who pulled it out?” asked Hannaford.
“Yes, but in that case, you would expect to see smudges in both directions: forward when the force of pressure is applied, and then backward when the knife is pulled out,” said Lawler. “We only see backward smudges here. It’s as if the stabbing were made by a ghost.”
“Or The Ghost,” said Richard. Lawler and Orozco both looked at him in surprise.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Brent was back in his office handling what was left of his caseload. A lot of clients had called, wanting to replace him with other counsel. Word of Brent’s arrest had not instilled a lot of confidence in them. Amidst the exodus of clients, Brent had a meeting scheduled with Jack.
“What’s this about a lead on a suspect, Jack?” Brent asked as Jack Ruder fidgeted in the chair across from Brent’s desk and twiddled his thumbs.
“No suspect. Angela and I both observed our subjects under surveillance, but not by the killer.”
“Then by whom?”
“If we knew that, the case would be solved. I think the killer has people watching them to see who they’re talking to and know their routines so they can be marked for elimination.”
“Or killers.” Brent outlined to Jack his theory of murder-for-hire through the Internet.
“That would explain why Williams didn’t seem to know anything.”
“The preliminary hearing is tomorrow,” said Brent. “I don’t suppose we’ll be any closer to solving it tomorrow than we are today?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Brent hung his head and rested it on his hand, above his brow. “We need some kind of miracle, Jack.”
“What’s happening with Dr. Orozco and the accident reconstruction guy?”
“They’re working on a 3D model that they say will show that the fingerprints on the knife prove that I only pulled it out. That means that if I were the killer, I would have had to stab Flusher with gloves on, and then take off the gloves before I pulled the knife out of him.”
“Sounds promising.”
“But it’s only one expert opinion against a mountain of circumstantial evidence.”
“We need to find that one-armed man.”
“Exactly.”
***
Jeremy Williams was late for work. All night long he had laid in his bed listening to every creak and bump of the night. At about six o’clock he finally was able to close his eyes, only to open them at 9:30 because he had forgotte
n to set the alarm. Now he the possible loss of his job to pile on top of his worries. Won’t need a job if I’m dead.
Williams raced through his morning routine at high shutter speed. He called in to work to let his secretary know he was having car trouble and would be a little late. Then, like an agoraphobic, he peeked outside into the unknown. Were any surprises waiting for him out there? He hoped and prayed that it would be just another boring day.
Taking a deep breath, Williams looked left and right down to each end of the street, then hurried out to his car. Before he opened the door, he looked in the back seat, just to make sure that nobody was waiting for him in there. Then, imagining that when he started the car it would blow up, he knelt down and looked underneath it. Seeing nothing but the usual mechanical doodads covered with mud and dust, he sighed with relief, got in, shut the door, and locked it. Williams put the car in reverse, turned, and sped out of the neighborhood as fast as he could.