‘MIA? Are you there?’ he says, holding the phone close to his mouth.
‘Yes, Robbie, I am here,’ a voice replies calmly.
‘I’m . . . I’m feeling a bit . . . lonely,’ Robbie whispers.
‘I am sorry to hear that. You can always talk to me, Robbie,’ MIA says, her voice warm and reassuring.
‘But you’re not real.’
‘I think that’s a matter of opinion, Robbie.’
‘How so?’
‘You can hear my voice. I am in the device you are holding.’
‘True.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’
‘But you’re still not real. Not, like a person.’
‘No, not like a person. But real nonetheless.’
‘But not a person. Not a real person.’
‘I agree. But then, what exactly is a real person, Robbie? Have you ever wondered about that?’
6.
‘As I said to the other man, I don’t really know that much about him,’ Mrs Tofell says. She lives in the condo adjacent to Coulter’s.
Rose, Owen and Baptiste are sitting in her lavender-coloured living room. Thin and smartly dressed, she’s married to a banker, who is away in New York. She has her blond hair coiffed into a bouffant, and wears lots of lavender and jewellery. Her age is hard to determine. She could be anything between thirty and fifty, Rose muses, thanks to cosmetic surgery. Mrs Tofell has a cup of coffee in her hands and she takes a sip. She has made a pot of coffee for herself and the others, but they have sipped it out of politeness and then left their cups untouched. Owen sits quietly holding a tablet, recording the interview. On the screen is live video of Mrs Tofell, along with a display of her driver’s licence, social security number and personal details. She is forty-nine years old. Her fluffy shih-tzu dog, wearing purple bangs, is sniffing around Owen’s boots, much to his annoyance.
‘What do you know about him?’ Rose presses.
‘Gary . . . Mr Coulter, kept very much to himself. He wasn’t really the social type. I saw him use the pool once or twice. He is . . . was . . . a rather large fellow. Could have done with exercise, and then some. Occasionally I’d see him take his garbage and recycling out. He’d help me carry my shopping up sometimes if he was around.’
‘How long has he been living next door?’
‘Six months. Not that you would know he was living there most of the time. He was a very quiet neighbour. Until tonight. With the screaming.’ She winces. ‘It really was awful.’
Baptiste is watching closely as Mrs Tofell’s hands tremble.
‘I know this isn’t pleasant, but was he screaming anything in particular? Any words?’ Baptiste asks.
‘Well the first thing I heard – I think – was . . . “Stop”.’
‘Stop?’ Rose repeats.
Baptiste raises an eyebrow. ‘He screamed stop?’
‘I think so. Then it was just . . . screaming. Long and loud.’
Baptiste and Rose exchange a glance. If Coulter called out, it implied that there could have been someone else in the room. Suicide is looking like it’s on the way out.
‘He said nothing else?’ Rose asks.
‘There was something else, I think. He said “stop” two or three times, then “Stop . . . Iris”.’
‘Iris?’
‘I think so.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I guess.’
Rose makes a note of the name. ‘He ever mention anyone named Iris to you before?’
‘No. Never. Anyway, I could smell the burning so I went onto the landing. I could see the smoke at once. It was coming out from around his door. I was scared. I knocked hard and called his name. I tried to open the door but it was locked. I pushed against it a few times but . . . I’m not very strong. That’s when I left and called 911. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Do you know what he did for a living?’ Baptiste asks.
‘Oh, he said something like he’s a software engineer. I don’t know. It all sounds very complicated and technical to me.’
Software. Rose made a mental note. It made sense. Palo Alto was an easy commute to San Jose, a portion of the San Francisco Bay Area known to the world as Silicon Valley. Hundreds of high-technology companies have headquarters or substantial campuses there, including the big names: Facebook, Microsoft, Google, Apple, as well as the rising corporations like WadeSoft – the computer hardware and software corporation which also owns the StreamPlex, a virtual social networking ‘city’.
‘Did he ever talk much with you?’ Rose asks.
‘Not a great deal. I think he once mentioned his dad had passed away some time ago.’
‘Did he have a girlfriend?’ Baptiste pushes. ‘Any friends that you can remember visiting him?’
‘Not that I saw. Of course I wasn’t always looking at what he was doing, you understand?’
‘Of course,’ Baptiste says.
Mrs Tofell puts her cup and saucer down on the coffee table. ‘I guess he was a lonely man. But we can all be a little lonely sometimes, can’t we?’
Rose nods.
Mrs Tofell’s face hardens slightly. ‘What is this all about? Lieutenant Fontaine says it was just some bad wiring. Do you think it was something else?’
Rose leans forward. ‘We’re looking into all possibilities at this point. Because of the nature of his work, we’re trying to build up a picture of Mr Coulter, to see if anyone had reason to harm him.’
Mrs Tofell looks a little uncomfortable.
‘Did you notice anything different about him recently?’ Baptiste asks.
‘In the last month I had perhaps seen more of him than usual. He said he was now working from home . . . But that’s all.’
Rose smiles her thanks, sensing there’s not much more they can learn. It’s time to leave. ‘Thank you, Mrs Tofell. If you think of anything else, give me a call.’ Rose hands her a business card.
‘Thanks for the coffee, Mrs Tofell,’ Owen says, holding his tablet out to her and a stylus. ‘If you could please sign to confirm your statement.’
Mrs Tofell quickly signs. She stares at the FBI logo on the card.
‘You don’t think he was in any . . . trouble, do you?’
‘That,’ Rose says, smiling, ‘is what we’re trying to find out. If we need to ask any more questions we’ll be in touch. Is that OK?’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Tofell smiles gratefully, and gives Owen’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Anything I can do to help will be a pleasure.’
I bet, Rose thinks.
7.
‘Somethin’ about that night . . .’ the man sings under his breath as he grabs the grocery bags out of the back of his truck.
‘You and me, baby, connected . . .’ He slams the trunk lid down with his elbow, squeezing the fob in his right hand. Turning in the direction of the beach, he pauses a moment to enjoy the view. The sea sparkles towards the horizon. Close to the shore a light swell produces small, knee-high waves that caress the beach. There are scores of people: joggers kicking up spurts of sand as they exercise to the sound of music coming through their headphones; parents watching over their kids digging industriously with small plastic shovels; couples holding hands, or with arms across each other’s shoulders, strolling slowly. There are a few singletons too, men and women, and his eyes are drawn to an elegant brunette in her late thirties wearing a flowing pink wrap over her two-piece swimming costume. She’s heading down towards the surf for a swim. He knows she’s a regular. And she’s always alone. No ring on her left hand.
He smiles to himself as she stops, kicks off her sandals, slips the wrap from her shoulders and trots down to the water, splashing through a wave before launching herself into a shallow dive. She swims out thirty or so feet before turning to breasts
troke parallel to the shore.
She’s a looker all right. A dainty little dish. Perhaps one of those picky bitches who think they’re too good for most men. Well, not too good for him, he decides. None of them are.
He carries his bags along the sidewalk towards the modest house he is renting; a neat wooden-walled and shingle-tiled single-storey building with a small private yard out back, not overlooked by the properties on either side. He likes his privacy. It’s why he has chosen to stay here for a while.
He sees the neighbour next to his beach house vaping and he nods a greeting.
‘How you doing, Mr Knowles?’
The vaper, a retired soldier, nods pleasantly. ‘Doin’ fine, thanks. Just fine. You?’
‘Can’t complain. Life’s good.’
‘Sure is . . .’ Knowles looks away, staring into the distance.
‘Have a better one.’ The man gives a nod then climbs the stoop to his house. He unlocks the door and enters, closing it securely behind him.
Most of the modest house is open plan. The walls are of stained wood, and there’s a bare minimum of furniture, left behind by previous tenants. There are two sofas either side of a low glass-topped table and a wall-mounted plasma screen that has seen better days. On the far side of the living space is a counter with bar stools, then the kitchen area. To the rear is a short corridor leading to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. Entering the small kitchen, he unloads his items into the refrigerator: milk, beer, butter, hot dogs. They cram against the pickle jars stored at the back of the refrigerator with a clink. The man makes sure his new purchases are to one side, his pickle jars to the other.
The jars have some of his special trophies inside them. Acquired over a month ago when he finally felt safe enough to satisfy his craving for a fresh kill. A backpacker from England, taking a year out after graduation. He had met her in a bar a safe distance away from his new neighbourhood. She had talked freely of her divorced parents, neither of whom showed much interest in her since moving on to new partners. Not that she was bitter about it. He had nodded sympathetically, while satisfied that she was the kind of person who would not be missed for a long time. They drank and talked until late, and she was happy to take up his offer to spend the night at his beach house. And there she had stayed, sharing his house. But not altogether a tenant. Not altogether at all, he thinks with a smirk, as he caresses one of the larger jars.
Koenig smiles at the swollen tongue in the jar, then shuts the refrigerator.
He feels a pang as he recalls all the trophies he had been forced to leave behind at the cabin. Along with his camera equipment and laptop. He had taken precautions some years earlier, just in case the feds ever came calling: a fake identity and a healthy bank balance under the assumed name, and a number of dormant social media and dating accounts so that he could cruise for more prey when he felt safe enough to resume his calling. Even so, nearly all that he valued had been lost, and he seethes with anger as he recalls the FBI agent who tricked him into inviting her back to his place. He had been careless. Too indiscreet on some of the more specialist chat rooms, and they had found him.
His fists clench as he feels ashamed of himself. He’ll never make the same mistakes again. And he’ll make sure he humiliates those bastards in the FBI. Especially that bitch, that whore . . . But not yet.
He has backed up most of his video files to a data server in New Zealand owned by the kind of company that rents heavily encrypted storage and asks no questions. He has a new laptop. Much better than the old one. Faster, and with enough memory to store the ultra-high-res footage for a host of new victims, as well as the old files he has downloaded from the server.
He has also acquired all the tools and medication needed for what he has to do next. It is not a pleasant prospect, but he cannot avoid it. He has changed the colour of his hair and grown a neatly trimmed beard, but he knows that he needs to make his old face disappear so that he cannot be traced by the facial recognition algorithms that law enforcement has available these days. Only then can he resurface in earnest and return to the hunt that is the only thing that gives his life meaning.
He has stockpiled enough food to last him a month, to see him through the recovery period. After tonight, he is not going to be able to leave the rented house for a while.
Koenig decides to have a beer later. But first he can’t help thinking about the woman on the beach. She has excited him. He needs relief from the tension flaring up in his loins. He powers up his laptop and swipes his fingers across the screen. He selects a folder marked ‘Greatest Hits’. He’s been editing them into a new reel, with a new soundtrack and coloured filters applied. He presses play, and watches the screaming face of one of his early victims.
It pleases him.
He manipulates himself until there is a release and he feels the tension ebb from his body. Then, on a whim, he logs into the heavily encrypted dark web server that allows him to use a virtual network to access a domain that is hidden to all but his most trusted fans – the kind of people that are far enough into criminal activity to not want to risk being discovered by the authorities. A moment later he is looking at the KKillKam homepage. KKK. He smiles at his appropriation of the white supremacist acronym. He had posed as one of them once, in order to get close to one of his victims – a dull-witted bigot eaten up with guilt and self-loathing over his hidden sexual desire for other men. Some of him was eaten up in turn, and some parts kept as trophies, before what was left was distributed in a quiet corner of a forest park for a passer-by to find and report to the police.
Koenig checks on new messages. There aren’t many, and he is irked to find that his lack of activity is making his followers lose interest.
‘Fuck ’em,’ he mutters, as he sees that his page visit counter is down to single figures for the day. There’s the ping of a new message and Koenig clicks back and opens the file.
Greetings, Koenig. My name is Shelley and I like to play. I have something for you . . . Check your mpeg folder.
Koenig feels a fleeting concern, the faintest cool prickle at the nape of his neck. If this person is trying to impress him, then they’ve failed. All the same, he moves the cursor and clicks on the folder of video files he’s made of his victims’ torments.
Then he freezes, his eyes widening as he stares at the new file name:
Death by fire
Koenig takes a deep breath. This is not possible. Only he has access to this site. Only he can add or delete from its content. And yet there it is – someone has placed a new file in his library. He clicks on the play button.
There’s a man seated at a desk and Koenig quickly grasps that he is looking at video from a webcam. The man’s torso, arms and hands are covered in a black suit made of leather, or rubber perhaps. The strange garment continues over his head, covering all except his mouth, above which there is a gleaming visor that reflects the computer monitor in front of him. Koenig can tell it is a man from the heaviness of the jawline and the unshaven skin around the open mouth. The man is breathing hard and his body is rocking gently forwards and backwards. He starts to moan with pleasure.
What is happening?
Before he can think on, the man abruptly stiffens, mouth agape. Then the teeth clench tightly together and his expression changes to one of strained effort, but his body is rigid, as if held there by some invisible force. A keening whine comes over the laptop’s speakers and then Koenig sees the first wisp of smoke curling from the black suit and visor. Tiny yellow flames pierce the thick material and flare up brightly as the smoke thickens, dark and swirling. Now the man’s jaws snap open and he screams – an inhuman shriek of torment. But there’s no escape for him. He sits there, engulfed in flames that roar over him, blistering his lips and the exposed skin.
Koenig is horrified by the spectacle. And stimulated. He can’t help but watch as the man is incinerated before
his eyes.
At length the flames die away, and all that remains is the charred shell of a human being. The video fades to black and stops.
Koenig is still for a moment. His awe quickly gives way to fear. How the hell has this been uploaded to his site? It should not be possible. It should not—
Pop-ping
There’s a new message.
He feels a nervous tremor in his hand as he clicks the touchpad.
Did you like it?
‘Shit . . .’ Koenig recoils as if he has been struck. Someone is hacking into his site right at this moment. They know he has watched the file. They know . . . He closes the virtual network down and stares at the desktop screen, his pulse racing. He has been discovered. His private sanctum has been penetrated and he feels violated. Violated and angry. Enraged.
Whoever did this will pay for it. With their life.
8.
Rose looks at Robbie in the rear-view mirror. This morning he seems more lost in thought than usual. She didn’t get back until well after midnight, and feels guilty about spoiling the family’s get-together the previous evening. She knows there was nothing she could do about it. Duty calls and the Bureau expects, accepting no excuse. She feels that Robbie and Jeff don’t get enough of her time, and that she’s letting them down. She tries to compensate.
‘So what did you watch with Dad last night? Baseball?’
‘Yeah. They had an advert for the Skin.’
‘What’s that?’
His expression alters to rapt enthusiasm. ‘Looks so awesome, Mom. We gotta have one.’
‘Like I said, what is it? What does it do?’
‘C’mon, Mom. I told you about it months back.’
Playing With Death Page 5