Borderline Insanity

by Jeff Miller

  It was an hour before sunrise, and the side windows showed solid black. Sixty miles from Dayton might as well have been on the other side of the earth. He turned the car again. Allison looked out the front windshield, where the headlights shined upon a single-lane road that twisted through the woods.

  “You do know where the silo is, right?” she asked.

  “Better than anybody.” He stopped the car and bent down, reaching under the seat. When he came up, there was a gun in his hand. “Give me your phone,” he said.

  She froze. A cascade of thoughts flashed through her head. The certainty of death. The fact that he was Bilford’s murderer. The notion that surviving this encounter gave her the story of a lifetime.

  “Give me your phone, or I’ll kill you right now,” he said, slipping a white glove over his hand.

  The phone was her only connection to the rest of the world. When she surrendered it, it felt like she was letting go of a rope as she dangled above a canyon. He took the keys from the ignition and put them in his pocket, opened his door, and stepped out of the car. Lifting the phone high above his head, he threw it down against the pavement. She heard it shatter into pieces.

  She grabbed the passenger-door handle and gave it a yank, then threw her weight into the door. It wouldn’t give. The thin man climbed back into the driver’s seat. “It’s not going to open. I turned on the child-safety locks.” He started the car, backed up, and turned around. “We’re going back to my house. While I’m driving, you may be tempted to try something bold. Maybe it will work, and you’ll manage to overtake me. Maybe I’ll reach back with my gun in time to stop you. Maybe we’ll both careen off the road to our mutual deaths. I’m fine with any of that. But right now, you’re the only person in the world who knows who I am, and you’re about to be the only person who will know why I did it. If you want to be the next Katie Couric, maybe you ought to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. Because as scared as you are right now, you need to understand that I’m giving you a gift.”

  As scared as she was, she decided to take it.

  CHAPTER 46

  A man with a gambling problem notices the lottery tickets at every checkout counter. An alcoholic knows the names of every bar he passes on the way to work. Sex addicts find temptation in every subway train, on every office floor. But anorexia is harder. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner—anorexics confront their disorder three times every day. How well would AA work if the body needed three drinks a day to stay healthy? It wouldn’t work at all.

  Dagny was eating an Egg McMuffin because junk food was convenient, and because it tasted good, but mostly because it was packed with Weight Watchers points. Accumulating these points now would free up time she’d have to search for them later. She needed fewer points than normal because she wasn’t running. This was a problem, because her legs needed about ten miles in the morning for her to feel spry, and her brain needed them, too. Her morning run let her focus her thoughts, process her emotions about them, and feel invincible. Now she’d missed the run for several days. How many exactly? She wasn’t even sure. That’s how addled her mind was without the run.

  Victor was also eating an Egg McMuffin. They were sitting in an empty office at the Bilford police station, waiting by a computer for an e-mail with the official FBI statement Dagny was to read at the press conference.

  “The genius of the Egg McMuffin is the Canadian bacon,” he said. “Perfectly round, so it reaches every edge of the sandwich, and yet thin enough that it’s not a calorie buster. You put sausage on this, and it overpowers the sandwich. The grease permeates it. You want meat in every bite, but you want to taste the egg and cheese, too. That’s why this is the quintessential breakfast sandwich.”

  She was half listening to him. Most of her mental energy was trying to think of ways to obfuscate when she was asked questions at the press conference.

  “If you were on The $25,000 Pyramid,” he continued, “and Fran Drescher says ‘Breakfast sandwich,’ ninety-nine out of a hundred people are going to say Egg McMuffin. That’s how powerful it is. If Fran says ‘Facial tissues,’ most people will say Kleenex, but some will say Puffs. Egg McMuffins are more dominant than Kleenex.”

  “Bacon, egg, and cheese,” Dagny said.

  “What?”

  “A lot of people are going to say, ‘Bacon, egg, and cheese.”

  “W-well,” he stammered. “Not that many.”

  Her e-mail chimed. She opened the Word file and hit “Print.” “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing the papers. On the way to the station’s front door, she caught her reflection in a window. She looked like a woman who hadn’t slept more than four hours in three days. It wasn’t a good look for the Bureau to convey on every television and newspaper in the country. Dagny turned back and wound her way through the station, sizing up the five women who worked there.

  “What are you doing?” Victor asked, chasing her.

  “Sizing up my options,” she said. The first woman she saw was caked in makeup. Dagny ruled her out immediately. The next two seemed to be completely indifferent to their appearance. She related to them, but they were of no use to her now. The fourth woman seemed to be in her sixties; she was well groomed and attractive, but her red lipstick suggested a less-than-natural approach to presentation. The fifth woman, a uniformed officer, had her hair tied back in a ponytail. Her cheeks seemed naturally red; her lips, naturally pink. There were no bags under her eyes even though there were pictures of small children on her desk. Dagny pulled a chair next to hers.

  “Forgive me for asking this, but are you wearing makeup?”

  “Can you tell?” she said, seemingly mortified.

  “No, I can’t. So if you’re wearing some, it’s perfect.”

  The woman smiled. “You need some?”

  “I need you to do it. I don’t know how. Not like you do, anyway.”

  “Sure.” The woman opened her desk drawer and pulled out supplies.

  “Also, I need it done in four minutes. I have to give a press conference at nine thirty.”

  “That’s not a problem. I’m lucky if I have two minutes in the morning between the first diaper change and breakfast.”

  Dagny closed her eyes as the woman applied the makeup. It felt like she was a thousand miles away, sitting in a Sephora in South Beach, listening to the gentle hum of ocean waves. When she opened her eyes, Beamer was fiddling with the static on a radio.

  “You’re on in two,” he said.

  The woman handed Dagny a makeup mirror, and she admired the results, thanked the woman, and grabbed her papers. Marching through the station, she studied the statement she was to give. It was filled with lots of words and little content, which was fine with her. She hated giving any facts about the investigation to the public. If it were up to her, she’d deny there was any investigation, or even a city called Bilford.

  Victor opened the front door of the police station for her. “You ready?”

  “Ready to get it over with.”

  A podium sat at the top of the steps in front of the station, facing out. She walked up to it. Seated behind her was a row of white men of municipal importance, like the police chief, whom Dagny knew, and many others she didn’t. The mayor, certainly, various councilmen and other civil leaders, she assumed. Not a Hispanic among them. Typical Bureau optics.

  On the other side of the podium was a sea of lights and cameras, along with faces that poured down the steps, into the street, and across it. As she stepped to the microphone, the assembled mass leaned forward in such perfect unison that Dagny had to suppress a smile, lest it be misperceived. She set her papers on the angled top of the podium and smoothed them with her fingers, even though they weren’t the least bit wrinkled. And then she began.

  “Our entire nation mourns the loss of life that has devastated so many families in Bilford and its neighboring counties. As of this morning, we have confirmed more than eighty deaths in what can be described as nothing less than a mass atrocity. All of the victims ap
pear to be Hispanic men, ranging in age from mid-teens to forty.”

  There was little of substance in the rest of her remarks. She expressed condolences to the families and assured the public that the president had directed the FBI to use all means available to it in service of this investigation. To her dismay, she also had to announce that a hotline had been established, and that a $100,000 reward was being offered for any tip that led to the capture of the perpetrator. Now, every crackpot had the power to divert precious Bureau resources on a wild goose chase.

  Reporters shouted inquires at her. Altogether, they formed a cacophony of noise. Dagny thought about asking the reporters to raise their hands and take turns but realized it was better if she didn’t. As long as the questions were unintelligible, she could supply any answer she chose. She leaned forward into the mic. “In answer to the question, the president is fully committed to the apprehension of the murderer. He has been briefed and is monitoring developments accordingly. Next.”

  More shouted inquiries. “Yes, the chief of police for the city of Bilford has been supporting the investigation in the fullest manner possible, and we are extremely grateful for his support. All of the officers under his command have been tremendous in their assistance. In particular, Officer John Beamer, as liaison to our investigation, has proved to be invaluable.” She hoped that compliment might pay dividends in the future.

  More questions were shouted, and she couldn’t understand any of them. “Too soon to say,” she said in response to a question that hadn’t been asked.

  More noise. “Not at this time,” she said in response.

  “Thank you for your questions,” Dagny said. “I’m afraid we’re out of time.” With that, she was done. She walked over to Victor, who was standing by the station door.

  “Nice trick,” he whispered.

  “Thanks.”

  He handed her his phone. “The Professor.”

  She walked back into the station and ducked into an empty interrogation room. “NSA?” she asked.

  “They have nothing. Our unsub doesn’t seem to have been carrying a phone.”

  Just as she’d feared. “We can’t catch a break.”

  “I’ll be back to Bilford this evening,” he said. “In the meantime, don’t ruin my investigation.”

  “Your investigation?”

  “You can have it back when something goes wrong.”

  She smiled. “See you tonight.”

  “One more thing. Nice job with the press conference.”

  “You watched?”

  “No. But if you had done a bad job, I would have heard about it by now.”

  Dagny hung up the phone and told Victor the bad news about the NSA data. “Maybe their search is too narrow,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They looked for metadata showing phones that were in the vicinity of each of the abductions, right? But if the guy is smart enough to leave his phone at home, they should look for a phone that didn’t move at all in the time before and after an abduction.”

  “That’s probably a hundred thousand phones.”

  “Sure. But the phone they want would have to be still for each of the abductions. So that will cancel out most of them.”

  “Then maybe we’re down to thousands of phones.”

  “Maybe. Maybe less.”

  “Call the Professor and have them try.” It was worth a shot.

  “What else should I do?”

  “Head back to the high school. Make sure everything is moving forward.” She dug into her backpack and pulled out the collar fragment from the coroner’s office. She also found the cigarette butt she’d collected at the farmhouse, which she’d forgotten. “Have them run the DNA on the butt and try to compare this fuel to the diesel from the silo.”

  He took them. “Okay. What else?”

  “Diego is bringing families to the high school to give statements and identify bodies. Make sure it goes okay.”

  “Will do.”

  “I want to start thinking about the things the victims have in common. Can you e-mail me the database as it currently stands?”

  “Sure. Where are you going?”

  “To see about a gas station.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Chloroform has a sweet smell, and that’s the last thing Allison Jenkins noticed before her arms went numb and she went blind. She woke hours later in a bedroom, bound to a chair next to a twin bed. At the other end of the room was a desk, pushed against the wall. Newspaper clippings, photographs, and maps were tacked to corkboard above the desk. Allison tried to read them, but they were too far away. The door at the far end of the room was closed. She assumed it was also locked from the other side. On the left was a window. The shade was drawn shut. Two shelves hung next to the window. They were filled with small trophies, ribbons, and a few framed photographs. One of the photographs looked like a high school graduation picture; the boy in it was wearing a cap and gown.

  She was in a teenage boy’s bedroom.

  Her hands were tied with rope behind the back of the chair, and her ankles were crossed and tied with rope to the chair legs. A steel chain wove in and out of the ropes, between her legs, under her arms, and around her neck. The lock connecting the ends of the chain hung beneath her chin like a necklace.

  Her mouth was dry, and she felt dizzy. There was a glass of water on the desk. Condensation was dripping down its side, glistening in the sliver of sunlight that slipped past the side of the shade. She threw her weight forward, trying to scoot her chair toward the glass of water, but the chair wouldn’t budge.

  She heard his footsteps walking toward the door to the room, and then it swung open.

  He had a small head with a little chin and thin, greasy hair slicked back on his scalp. His eyes were narrow. There was a slight arch in his back, and his arms hung long on his torso. He smiled in a pronounced, menacing way, flashing crooked yellow teeth. A red-and-black plaid shirt hung loosely on his torso, tucked neatly in blue jeans, which were tucked neatly into a pair of worn leather boots.

  Taken together, the man was tall and ugly and stained and bent. He was all of these things, but mostly he was thin. Not emaciated or malnourished or weak. But he was put together with narrow bones and small organs. A tight rib cage and small lungs, and beneath that, a small heart.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He shook his head and laughed. Pulling the chair from the desk, he spun it around and straddled it backward, three feet in front of her. “You know what you get for your first murder?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “You get the death penalty. Know what you get for your second murder?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Nothing.” He took a big breath and stared at her. “You’re a pretty girl, Ally. I could do anything I want to you, and there would be no consequence at all. Now, if I were you, I’d be scared. But I’m not you—I’m me. And do you know how I feel?” He locked his hands together and cracked his knuckles. “I feel free.”

  Allison Jenkins was not free. She was physically incapacitated three feet from a mass murderer with some kind of crush on her and nothing to lose. All she had was her voice. She’d interviewed enough men to know when people like to talk, and this guy was a talker. It might be enough to keep her alive. “What do you want?” she said.

  “I wanted the world to make sense, but we’re long past that now.”

  “Why did you kill all of these men?”

  He shook his head. “Try again.”

  “Where are we?”

  “At my house.”

  “Whose room is this?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Do you have a son?” she prodded.

  His eyes drifted over at the photos of the boy on the wall. “No,” he said. “I do not have a son.” Still scanning the pictures, he added, “I never did.”

  There was wistfulness in his voice. She wondered who the boy was and what he had meant to her captor. S
omewhere underneath the monster’s skin lurked a human heart. “What’s your name?”

  He looked back at her, and his eyes hardened. “Tell me what I should do with you, Allison.”

  She sensed that the right answer could save her life, so she phrased it carefully. “I’m a journalist. I tell stories for a living. I can tell your story, any way you want it told. People are forming their own picture of who you are. Don’t lose control of your narrative. When history records what happened in Bilford, it can be fair to you or it can be unfair. I can make sure it’s fair.” She pitched it like a story to a news director.

  For a minute or two, he stared at her, his mind seeming to cycle through thoughts and permutations. It felt as though a coin had been tossed into the air, and it was falling in slow motion, turning from heads to tails and back again. Finally, he smiled. “Yes, Allison. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  He stood, dragged the chair to the other end of the room, and slid it under the desk. “See you tomorrow,” he said as he walked out the door.

  “Where are you going?” she called out to him. But he was gone.

  CHAPTER 48

  Canter’s Gas was a big pit now. The explosion had burned everything above the ground, and the EPA had required them to dig up everything below it. A chain-link fence surrounded the lot and bore signs of various warnings.

  Dagny scaled the fence and jumped down to the other side. There was no real reason to do this; there were no clues to be found on the lot. But the unsub had been there, and being inside the fence made her feel closer to him.

  On her way to the site, Victor had passed along two pieces of information that were hard to reconcile. First, credit cards tied to at least three of the deceased showed large purchases at Canter’s Gas on the day of the explosion. Second, the gasoline on the attendant’s shirt collar didn’t match the diesel fuel that blew up the silo. Maybe the unsub had filled up most of his tanks with diesel, but then used gasoline for the last one, since it was a better accelerant. Maybe the attendant had come out to question him about the large purchases, and the unsub sprayed him with gasoline, tossed a match on him, and the whole place blew. Maybe, but unlikely, she figured. That kind of thing only happened in the movies. MythBusters even debunked it.