by Andrew Mayne
I leave Reynolds to Ailes and his team when they conference call. Ross drives me back to the airport, with the box of hard drives sitting in my lap. The victims’ faces could be in there, as could the identity of the next potential ones.
I have a thought—what did I do when I first found the site?
I uploaded my own picture.
What if the Warlock did the same? What if his photo is somewhere in here? It’s a chilling thought to think his face could be somewhere on a hard disk I was holding.
Ross speaks up as we head to the airport. “One million.”
“What?” I ask.
“He left his bank account open on his computer. One million dollars. That’s how much your friend paid him. Must be nice to have that kind of money lying around. We have to keep our work cars parked one day out of the week just to fit the gas budget.”
Who knows what the Web site was worth or even if it was making Reynolds much money. Most of those ventures fail. Damian offered him a magical number. Say yes and you’re a millionaire right now . . .
We all feel the crunch of government budgets. It’s half of the paperwork Ailes talked about.
Ross continues, “Of course, your friend probably made a wise bet. Once this blows over and everyone hears about the website, it’ll probably be worth millions more. Smart. Very smart.”
Goddamn you, Damian. You don’t miss an angle.
33
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR BREYER has his fingers steepled as he stares at his desk. I’ve just told him everything I know about Damian. Intimate things. Ailes and Chisholm are seated on either side of me. Chisholm is there to provide some kind of analysis of Damian. Ailes is there to provide what I guess is moral support. All of these men are old enough to be my father. Not that I’d ever tell him any of this. I feel so exposed, yet in a way, I’m relieved.
“Why didn’t you bring this to my attention sooner?” Breyer finally says.
I take a deep breath. “When I went through background checks here, I explained everything.” Not quite everything. I didn’t tell them about some of my assumptions . . .
Ailes tries to defend me. “Agent Blackwood mentioned this man to me before she left for Austin. I don’t think she’s done anything intentionally to hide or obstruct information about him.”
Breyer looks agitated. “Then how did he know she was there? How did he know what we were trying to accomplish there if nobody leaked it?” He looks me right in the eye as he says this. I can tell he thinks I may have whispered it to Damian on a phone call or made some kind of seemingly innocent admission. He’s wondering if things are really over. He still doesn’t know what to make of me.
“I didn’t,” I reply. “As I explained to Dr. Chisholm before I left, it was Damian who led me in the direction of the face-matching website. I think he knew which one the Warlock was using.”
Breyer’s voice has a touch of condescension. “And that didn’t set off any alarm bells?”
“Every single one. That’s why I disclosed that to Ailes and mentioned Damian in my notes to the case supervisor, Agent Knoll. After Damian bought the site, I made it clear that we needed to bring this to your attention.”
“Do I need to remind you that Dr. Ailes is not career FBI?” replies Breyer.
Ailes calmly interrupts. “Blackwood was assigned to me by your order. And like it or not, the director gave me a badge and a gun.” He pauses for a moment, “And all the authority that goes with it.”
Breyer waves off the comment. “Yes. Yes. It’s not the point.”
Ailes is trying to protect me. I respect him for that. Everyone in the room knows he’s the one with the most political power if he chooses to use it. I get the feeling Breyer doesn’t like being reminded that Ailes can call the shots when he wants to. But to his credit, Ailes is reluctant to do that.
I just wish it didn’t come down to him having to stand up for me. I’ve tried to dance this line as carefully as possible.
There’s an expression in the bureau about covering your ass with a blizzard of paperwork. If you’re worried that something might make you look bad, you don’t hide it. You just file a bunch of reports about anything and everything. When I was a cop there were guys on the force who’d complain about everything they were asked to do, so just in case something blew up on them, they could pull out an e-mail where they said it was a bad idea to begin with.
I never took that approach with Damian. I reported the facts as they happened. I just left out my suspicions and my off-the-book attempts to find out who he really is. Breyer knows I did everything right technically. In my write-up about Faceplaced.com, I mentioned Damian as a source. I didn’t red flag him. But he’s right there in the notes.
“Where does he get his money? What do you know about him?” asks Ailes.
It’s just as embarrassing as the intimate details. For as much time as we spent together, I can’t say I really know any more about who he was before there was an “us.” Damian never spoke about parents or family. He’d be on first-name basis with every bartender at a popular nightclub, but I don’t think he had friends. One night we might go out to eat with a handsome older couple with a yacht in Biscayne Bay, people we’d never meet again. Damian had met them earlier that day at a wine store. It was like that all the time. He knew lots of people, but nobody “knew” him.
He always paid in cash. I’d asked him casually about money. He mentioned investing and something to do with the Internet. But that was the extent of it. Given Damian’s charm and ability to connect with people at every level, anything is possible.
My ex-boyfriend, Terrence, had a friend who made his money as a deal broker connecting people he met at country clubs to businesses looking for capital. If you know people with money and you’re clever, it’s not hard to get into the game.
I tried to ask Damian on a few occasions about his childhood. The impression I got was that he wasn’t a happy kid. I suspect he’d been living on his own since he was a teenager. His ability to fit in and make people like him seems driven by a need to survive.
I’d never had another lover like Damian. I suspect the reason was because lovemaking for him was more about making me happy. I think he really was after my mind. Our relationship was sexual, but his attachment was something else.
I could be in a restaurant filled with gorgeous South Beach models, but never would his eyes stray. He could charm the hell out of a waitress in front of me, yet never appear flirtatious. He made me feel I was the only woman in his world. I still wonder if that’s the case.
Breyer looks over at Chisholm. “What do you think about this character?”
Chisholm has been absorbing this with his normal clinical detachment. It’s unnerving. I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye.
“He sounds a little like Abagnale if he never wised up,” replies Chisholm.
Frank Abagnale was the teenager who masqueraded as an airline pilot, a doctor and a dozen other fake identities before getting busted for counterfeiting. He was the inspiration for the movie Catch Me If You Can. He’s now a respected businessman and a visiting lecturer at the academy.
Chisholm continues his thought. “Frank Abagnale was an aberration. A sharp kid who got caught up in a game that got out of hand. Nothing sociopathic about him. Damian is different.” He turns to me. “Do you think he believes he’s these other people?”
Chisholm is asking me if I think Damian is delusional. “I don’t know. When I catch him, it’s like he snaps back to himself. Or at least himself as I first met him. He knows what he’s doing most times.”
“Interesting. Multiple personality disorder is a mostly imaginary condition. The best treatment is to send a patient to a facility where they don’t acknowledge it. The condition tends to go away. This situation sounds a lot like what some of our undercover operatives go through. The CIA has an entire program for helping agents who have been in the field for prolonged periods of time deal with the shift back. Most of the criminals we
’ve dealt with who’ve used assumed identities for long periods of time are in constant fear. They never forget. The curious thing is that usually the best undercover cops are the ones who test on the edge of being a sociopath. That makes treatment even harder.”
Breyer waves his hand in the air. “I’m not worried about what makes him what he is. I want to know if he could be our Warlock.” The question is directed at me.
I knew this was coming. “No. It’s not him.”
“Why do you say that?” asks Breyer.
I don’t have an answer other than a gut feeling. I choose my words carefully. “I’ve never known him to be capable of hurting an innocent person.”
Chisholm’s eyes light up. “Innocent? Care to clarify that?”
Damn. He pays attention to everything. “It’s an expression,” I explain. “We’re all trained to use force. But only against the bad guys. Like any man, I’m sure Damian would defend himself.” I almost add, “Or someone else,” but keep my mouth shut.
“Got it,” replies Chisholm flatly, neither agreeing nor challenging me.
Got what?
Ailes makes an attempt to change the direction of the meeting. “Whoever Damian is, assuming he hasn’t doctored the Faceplaced data, we may have some answers in a few hours about past and potential victims. Maybe even a photo of the Warlock. All thanks to his generosity, I might add.”
Breyer is still skeptical. “Assuming. That’s a big assumption from where I’m looking. Right now he looks like our biggest suspect. Blackwood, when you get a chance, I want you to sit down with one of Chisholm’s people and go over everything. I’d also like to send a forensic team to your home.”
“Yes, of course.” I don’t have a choice. “I also have a hat he left behind. But I think it’s another one of his games.”
Chisholm looks like he’s trying to decide whether to say something. “Agent Blackwood, you’ve admitted this man has fooled you before.”
“Yes?”
“I know it’s difficult to look at this objectively. But have you entertained the idea that the Warlock could be a separate personality? Maybe something he keeps locked away while he’s around you?”
A thousand times since he showed up in my apartment a few days ago. “Yes. And I know the stories about wives who never realize their husbands are serial killers. I understand all this. The difference between them and me is that they’ve been ignoring little details. Bloodstains. Late hours. Weird kinks. I look for them.”
“Look for them?” asks Chisholm.
“Ever since I saw what he was, I’ve tried to find out if he could be dangerous to me. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about that.” Or if he killed the man who attacked me . . .
34
AILES FOLLOWS ME into the hall while Chisholm stays behind to talk to Breyer. I can only imagine what little details Chisholm picked up from me that he’s now revealing to Breyer. I feel guilty for not telling them about Damian and the pimp. I know it would put the entire investigation into a different light. Damian would become their focus.
I know he’s not the Warlock. I’m positive.
I keep telling myself this. Each time I grow a little less certain.
I’ve known two incredibly strong personalities in my life. My grandfather and Damian. My own father was a shadow in the presence of my grandfather. Even when we lived on our own, Grandfather was still the patriarch of the family. My father always felt like acting on his own was being defiant to his father. I transfer a lot of paternal feelings and rebelliousness toward my grandfather because of that. I wanted to pull away from his influence more than anyone else.
With Damian, it’s the way he sees right into me. I’m still that awkward teenage girl he met at the magic convention. He knows the woman is an act. I’ve never known anyone who could read me as well as he can. And it’s scary because he’s the most unpredictable, impossible person I’ve ever met.
Unpredictable. Impossible.
These are the same words people are using to describe the Warlock.
They’re also the same words you could use to describe my grandfather if you didn’t know him like I did.
I guess that’s what’s nagging me. Unlike everyone else in this building, I know men like Damian and my grandfather. My life is filled with unusual, impossible men. Men from the same world as the Warlock.
When we’re inside the elevator, Ailes notices my frustration.
“Something on your mind?” he asks.
“I’ve told them everything I know,” I say defensively.
“And?”
Ailes has proven he’s earned my trust. “Well, not everything I suspect. I just don’t want to send us off into any wild-goose chases.”
Or expose Damian for the thing he did to protect me.
“If you’re sure it’s not relevant and it’s only speculation, then keep it to yourself. I don’t need to know.” We reach the bottom floor. Before we exit, he turns to me, “On the other hand, you better be damn sure he doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
The thing I’m dying to know, if Damian did it, was under what circumstances he killed my attacker. The coroner’s report said there was a struggle. Bruising on his knuckles and signs that he fought back. The bruising suggests that Damian came at him head-on and not from behind.
Did Damian just try to talk to him and it escalated from there? Was Damian acting in self-defense? The forensic evidence doesn’t dispute that. It also doesn’t say that’s the way it happened either. Damian could even have provoked him into a fight, knowing he was going to kill him. Or Damian could have just arranged it from hundreds of miles away. Anything is possible with him.
By the time I reach the bullpen, I know the right thing for me to do is to cooperate as fully as possible. If someone pushes me about my suspicions, which nobody did, I’ll tell them that I think he may have acted in self-defense in a crime I have no proof he was ever involved in.
Gerald and Jennifer are waiting for us when we walk into the room, with grave expressions on their faces. They’re standing in front of a video projection of an image of Chloe. It’s a photograph of her I haven’t seen before.
“This is Denise Lewis,” says Jennifer. “Same birthday as Chloe, and as you can see, an identical match. She grew up eighty miles away from where Chloe’s body was found. Her family moved to Ohio when she was twelve. She went to Ohio State and majored in biology with an intent to go into veterinary medicine.”
I remember Chloe volunteered at an animal shelter.
Gerald clicks to another image. Denise is on a horse against some sparse rocky mountains. “Six months ago she updated her Facebook status to say she got an internship to work in a village in Mongolia teaching English. She’s made sporadic updates since then. Even uploading photographs.” He shows another photo of her. This one shows her nuzzling a horse by a yurt.
“Nice photo?” He brings up another image. It’s the same exact photograph, but a different girl. This one is Asian. “The Warlock modified these photographs with her image.” He points to the skin on her cheek. “These aren’t Photoshops. He actually rendered the entire image using a 3-D model. The light bounce is perfect. A fake made in two dimensions wouldn’t quite get the shadows right. The only giveaway on this image is that he used a blurring tool with too low of a randomness. I don’t think anybody would catch it unless they knew exactly what they’re looking for.”
Ailes shakes his head. “Do her parents know?”
Jennifer’s face drops. “No. They think she’s still alive. We told Knoll. He’s preparing for what to do next.”
“Goddamn this asshole.” Ailes is visibly shaken.
As with Swanson’s wife, we don’t want the Warlock to know what we’ve learned. If he’s still trying to maintain that Denise is alive, he might stay in contact with them so nobody ever makes the connection.
But what’s his endgame? Tell the families they died overseas? Send back a cigar box filled with ashes?
“What else?” asks Ailes.
Gerald shows an image filled with hundreds of small photographs. “In the hope that the Warlock uploaded his own photo, we theorized some parameters and found four thousand uploaded images that appear to fit. We’re searching the IP addresses for potential masking, etcetera to look for matches. We’ve also sent them to behavioral analysis. They’re going to run them through VICAP and do a search through the images we collected in Fort Lauderdale of the crowd at the Avenger site.”
If we can tie one of the uploaded photos to someone who was there, that could be a big lead. It’d give us a face to put on the news. It would show we were doing something besides waiting for the next murder.
I walk over to the screen to look at the faces up close. The frames are tightly cropped around their heads. There’s a range of human emotion. Any one of them could be the Warlock. Ailes stands next to me and squints. He’s having the same thought.
“What about the next victim?” I ask. “Do we know which search was done first? Did he look for Chloe’s twin or Denise’s?”
“Chloe,” says Jennifer.
Interesting. That means that he selected Denise because she looked like Chloe. If it were the other way around it would suggest he had nothing to do with the Chloe’s murder. This, on the other hand, suggests he killed both of them and had been planning this several years back.
“What about Swanson? Did he find him after he found the plane?”
“Probably. The logs show a high-resolution image of the original pilot was uploaded eight months ago. He was looking for a match to Kelsford and that’s how he found Swanson.”
Eight months? Assuming he was looking for a match for the pilot because he’d already found the plane in the ocean, that’s at least how long he waited on the discovery of a lifetime. A secret so big that it would change history. But he just kept it to himself. At least it supports the idea that he went looking for a victim to fit the crime and not the other way around. The odds of the other possibility are incomprehensible. It’s some comfort to know he’s not that lucky.