“Then how did she follow Banich? Do you think a maladjusted teenager could stalk him?”
“Yes. And you do, too.” Victoria leaned forward. “You know things about her. Don’t you? Things you haven’t told me.”
He sighed. “Fine. Here’s how I met her.” He told her the story, start to finish, and he even showed her the scar on his forearm. When he’d first sent Ryn her way, he had left out the details, but now that he filled in the blanks, she didn’t seem at all surprised.
“Just how classified is that story?”
“Enough to put me in a cell,” he said. “I’m a little bothered that you’re not more… incredulous.”
“I have a three-inch-thick file documenting the impossible things I’ve seen her do. Nothing surprises me as long as it’s something she can do by herself and without smiling.”
“Like what?”
“Promise me that Ryn is not just a case for you.”
“Pulling her out of that hellhole is probably the best thing I’ve ever done,” Kessler said. “I’ve visited her a dozen times since I moved back home. She matters to me, okay?”
“Okay. CliffsNotes version: Ryn’s the strangest case I’ve ever seen. Her brain isn’t human. I’d bet good money that if you put her into an MRI, the neuroscientist would reach for the whisky in his drawer five seconds later. He wouldn’t even have words to define what he saw.
“A concert pianist came to Sacred Oaks a month into Ryn’s stay. She was rapt because she’d never seen a piano before. Three days later, I caught her playing Beethoven in the rec room. Flawlessly. She’s never done it since. She came in with broken English and no reading, writing, or math, and now she nearly has her GED. It wasn’t until she was under 24-hour observation that we realized she only sleeps one day a month—and always on the new moon. All day and all night, like she’s hibernating.
“Then on the full moon, she’s half crazy. Tried to have a session with her once on the day of the full moon and she couldn’t focus on anything. Kept telling me it was the moon distracting her. Ended up taking three coins on my table and spinning them. Never seen anything like it.”
“Never seen someone spin a few coins on a table?”
“Not one on top of the other, no.”
“And she still doesn’t… understand people?”
“Not at all,” Victoria groused. “She learns quickly—even the mechanics of language—but she only understands facial expressions in the most clinical sense. Can’t lie, doesn’t grok money or manners or the basics of friendship, love, or even family. She’s atomized, and on some level… I question whether she wants to learn. I know the way she processes expressions and the tendency toward sensory overload probably put her somewhere on the autism spectrum, but it’s not her only barrier. There’s a lot she won’t learn just because she resents it.”
Kessler sat back. “What about the physical differences? The teeth. I thought she’d filed the teeth at first but the canines are actually too long. And her eyes? That’s not normal.”
“I’m not an expert, but maybe she’s a genetic offshoot. Imagine a group of humans with those traits: sleeplessness, antisocial intelligence, sharpened teeth, bright eyes, and nocturnal habits. Getting close to a lot of Dracula-style fairy tales there. A small band of humans with those traits might end up isolated. Living on the periphery. Maybe they’d be nomads, probably secretive enough to go unnoticed. But that’s all speculation. What I know for certain is that Ryn could have probably tracked Banich down. And beat him. But she’d never work with him.”
“All right. I want to talk to Ryn.”
“I’ll tell her.”
~*~
Kessler was used to the Four-Three Precinct by now—a rundown station with exposed pipes showing through patches of broken wall—so walking into Central, he had to adjust to thrumming, black computers and new-carpet smell. It seemed like the sort of place where solving crimes did more than hold back the tide. It possessed smooth, clean architectural lines, and natural light poured in through tall windows, which provided an unobstructed view of busy streets in Commonwealth Plaza. Those windows made him feel exposed, but then, building sides were rarely shot up in Commonwealth Plaza.
O’Rourke had a small, windowless office, its walls lined with photos and commendations. Two monitors displayed browsers with forty tabs open, case files were heaped on every available surface, and one stack balanced an open pizza box. O’Rourke ate and scrolled a mouse wheel. His reading glasses comically enlarged his small eyes. “What’d you find?” he asked between bites, without looking up.
“Rough image on a possible accomplice.” Kessler paused. “Still working on the ID.” More like working out what to do about it. He passed the stills to O’Rourke, who rubbed his oily fingers off on his tie and leafed through them. They included the shadowy image from the parking deck and the blurry one from the walking bridge.
“Can’t see a damn thing. Based on the light fixtures in the parking deck, our perp’s five-foot, give or take an inch. Slender. Matches this one you found from the walking bridge. Good job. Except if he’s this big, can’t figure how he wrecked Banich.”
Kessler removed some folders from a chair and sat. “How about you?”
“Talked to the senator and found something damn disturbing. Let me bring it up.”
Kessler glanced around the office. There were action figures on the desk: R2-D2 and Han Solo. The bookcase’s lower shelves held textbooks on statistics, something called “Stata,” and forensics, but higher up it turned into paperback science-fiction and mystery novels. “You read a lot?”
“You don’t?” O’Rourke clicked a few more times with his mouse.
“When I have time.”
“Find more time. Keep your brain sharp. Hungry. That’s your most important tool now, and you need to learn obsession and curiosity. Otherwise your work regresses to the mean.” He focused a moment on Kessler and said, “The mean in New Petersburg is pretty bad. Now. Look at this.” He swung his monitor around.
It was a wall of text on an internet message board. Kessler scanned a few lines:
…best way to dump her corpse? Use lime, like the mob.
Noob. That’s lye, ur killing a whore, not makin cocktails lol.
Why dump it? Put her on display at the end. Or during. Make it public.
When I think of all the people Bradford murdered to get where he is it just makes me want to cave his skull in with my fist. Wonder if he’ll cry when we do to his daughter what he’s been doing to our DEMOCRACY…
Kessler stopped reading. “There’s got to be a hundred sites like this on the internet. Just people blowing off steam, right?”
“That’s what I figured at first. The premise for the board is sick—point-scoring system for who can hurt Bradford the most. Last two weeks, it’s been a nonstop circle jerk about kidnapping and raping his daughter. They doxed him—” O’Rourke paused, peering up to see if Kessler knew what that was.
“Posted his address and phone number.” Kessler waved his partner on.
“—and a few weeks ago, one of them called the cops pretending to be Bradford, saying he had a gun and was gonna kill his daughter. Tried to get a SWAT team to break into his house. Luckily, the operator was on her game and figured it out before the wagon arrived. Bradford said they changed their number, but he was apparently keeping his daughter out of the loop until now.”
“This is crazy, though. Do you really think this website inspired Banich?”
“He’s one of their top five posters.”
“And you think his accomplice was someone he met on the site?”
“Someone helped him. He had professional surveillance on his wall, and Banich wasn’t the sort who blends in well. I don’t think it’s everyone on the site—”
“—but we need to figure out who helped him, and the site’s a good start.” Kessler considered what was on the screen. “The web stuff is out of my depth. Can we track them somehow?”
“We�
��d need a warrant for the IP addresses, and that still might not do it. Banich was a dumb shit by all accounts, but whoever took the surveillance and pieced it together for him… he’s different. Has that slippery feel, sort who might be hard to find. Meantime, we split up the board posts and try to find anyone who chatted up Banich’s account or looks especially suspicious. Banich’s computer didn’t have much, so whoever it was probably had another way of talking to him outside the boards, too.”
“Even if we find this accomplice on the website, how do we get to him if he’s as slippery as you say?”
“I can root around. Even if he covered his tracks, a lot of these assholes are vain and like to talk about themselves. We can still try to connect anything he gives away about his background, try to figure him out based on his habits or interests—or maybe he’s got other accounts somewhere else with a similar ID. Burns my ass, though. You know how much easier this’d be if Bradford wasn’t blocking that Senate security bill?”
Kessler didn’t follow domestic politics much. “Hadn’t heard about it.”
“Some big plan to import static IDs to internet users. They’d still be anonymous to one another if they wanted, but everyone’s name would connect back to their real-world identity in a federal database. Trying to crack down on cyberterrorism, but Bradford’s opposed for some blah-blah-blah rehearsed civil-liberties reason. Since the bill’s dead in the water—and ‘unconstitutional as hell,’ says Bradford—guess we do it the old-fashioned way.”
Kessler looked at his partner a moment. “Isn’t it a little strange the Bradford kid gets attacked by an anonymous internet maniac the same week her father’s fighting a bill that would make the guy’s accomplices easier to track down?”
A twinkle appeared in the fat detective’s eye. “Another good reason to follow this rabbit hole all the way down, don’t you think?”
“So you’re saying conspiracy?” That’s crazy, but at least it doesn’t point toward Ryn.
“Saying I’m going to find out. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a puzzle with missing pieces.”
~*~
Roosevelt Place was a decrepit building in the Czech part of the Docks, based on the language of the graffiti. The elevator lights flicked out twice on Kessler’s ascent. It was a medium-bad group home, but Victoria didn’t have room to be picky in the crowded New Petersburg system. He suspected she’d placed Ryn knowing her to be a tougher-than-average girl.
Judy Birch answered the door. Her smile was plastic. “Are you the detective?”
“I am.” Kessler showed her his badge. “I’m here to talk to Ryn Miller.”
“She isn’t in any kind of trouble, is she?” Mrs. Birch leaned close. “Because between you and me, that one is always up to something. Don’t trust anything she says, especially about my husband.”
Shit, that’s not suspicious. “If I could just speak with Ms. Miller, that would be fine.”
She let him through and he stepped carefully into the living room. The frayed sofa only had a body’s width of clearance from the wall, all of the furniture too large for the size of their apartment. It was cluttered but clean. The absence of roaches or animal droppings alone put it above the cutline at which group homes might get written up.
He felt the air move and glanced over. Ryn stood in front of a curtained doorway and he wasn’t sure when she’d arrived. Always with the little cat’s feet. He noted the cargo pants and hoodie, same as the photo.
“Ryn.” He didn’t bother with a pleasant smile, since he knew she wouldn’t care. “That look suits you.”
“Sergeant Kessler. I prefer when you aren’t covered in the stink of war.”
“Such a charmer.”
They stared from ten feet apart, Kessler in his jacket and tie, Ryn barefoot on the carpet with a paperback in hand. Judy Birch stood in the kitchen doorway, hands clasped and forcing a smile that, as the seconds ticked down, dissolved more and more into a frown.
“You two are friends.” Her fingers tapped hastily together. “What fun!”
It clearly was not.
“Good book?” Kessler asked.
“About a cowboy and a woman. I don’t understand why she hasn’t shot him yet.”
“You taking care of yourself?” She was still too thin—but she’d always been that way.
“You know I have.”
“Keeping busy?”
“I read. I run.”
“How about chasing? You do any chasing?”
She said nothing.
“You chase someone in the vicinity of Center Square Mall? Enjoy a little arson? Beat a guy named Walter Banich into a full body cast?”
Still nothing.
“Body cast?” Mrs. Birch tapped her fingers together again. “I’ll just… go put together a cookie tray.” She fled to the kitchen.
“The roof.” Ryn disappeared into her curtain.
Mrs. Birch tried to pry information from him about the arson and beating; he just stepped close. “Your husband had better not touch any of these kids. If he does, what I’ll do is the least of your concerns. But it should still be a very big fucking concern. You feel me?”
She blanched and nodded.
Kessler took a cookie from her plate and chewed on it going out the door. Raisins. Scowling, he tossed it into a garbage can in the hall and climbed to the roof, where Ryn stood on dark tarpaper, still barefoot, collecting snow in her raven-feather hair.
“Albert Birch ever touch you?”
“His eyes bother me.”
“See that his hands don’t. If he ever does anything to you or the other kids, call me.” He knew she wouldn’t. “And you should have called me about Banich, too.”
“Will you arrest me?” she asked.
“Depends. Did you help Banich?”
She snarled and flashed her teeth.
He took a step back. “Point taken.”
She turned. Her gaze lengthened over the rooftops. The wind tugged her hair, which was loose and long. Her features seemed somehow girlish and hard at once—soft cheeks, firmed mouth. He knew what her dark sunglasses hid and the thought made him shudder.
“I didn’t know him,” she said. “I didn’t help him.”
“But you were at the mall that night.”
“I was.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I walked. Met a… what is the word?”
“Friend?”
“Friend.” It sounded alien on her lips. “Perhaps.”
“You assaulted Banich at the mall and lit his van on fire?”
Again, the silent treatment.
“Someone your size, with your skills, assaulted him. You were there. There’s probably footage of you in the mall. Ryn. You could go to prison.”
She stood like a statue, her gaze on rooftops far away.
“Jesus. Look. Do you use the internet?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“People use it around me at school. I don’t like the way the light moves in the screens. It bothers my eyes.”
“So you don’t have your own computer?”
“No.”
“You don’t know anything about an anti-Bradford hate site? And you never took any surveillance of Naomi Bradford?”
“No. That was another.”
“Wait. You know the guys who helped Banich?”
“I know of them.”
Kessler stepped closer. “How?”
She seemed lost in something happening in the alleyway. “He told me, in between screams. Naomi is still in danger. Isn’t she?”
“You know her?”
No answer.
“Oh, naturally, of course you know her. Is that who you met at the mall?” Her silence indicated “yes,” and Kessler let out an elaborate, pent-up curse. He stretched it into eight extra syllables. “If you’re spotted around Naomi Bradford and someone links you to the Banich assault, it’s going to get ugly. Keep your distance.”
Ryn didn’t speak
. Kessler wanted to shake her. Then she said, “Be careful, Sergeant Kessler. There is more danger than you realize.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“They move in packs.”
Kessler realized she was talking about Banich. “How do you know?”
“Whispers. Places you cannot go. The stories worm their way out of deep crevices.”
“Then how many are there?”
“Hard to say. At least three. Never more than six, because seven is holy. But Banich is… unimportant. He isn’t really one of them. The one who controlled Banich escaped.”
“The ones who took the surveillance? And you know them?”
“Only as prey.”
“No. No, Ryn. You cannot be involved. This is not the Fortress, we have laws here. And we’re very good at this. We’ll get DNA, prints, we’ll track them down.”
“You will find shadows and rumors. No more. These ones are ghosts.”
“Stay out of this.”
Her gaze met his, so hard it caught his breath. “Tell me again what to do. I dare you.”
His mouth went dry. “Telling you what to do is my job.”
“I have no job, only purpose. Unlike you, I must obey it, because my purpose is all that I am. And my purpose is to stay close to Naomi Bradford. She is safer with me. You don’t understand this threat, because it doesn’t come from civilized places.”
“Then where?”
“They are born from great sins and powerful emotions, and they are more and less than human.”
I’m talking to someone who grew up in a place where they take gods and monsters literal-fucking-serious, he reminded himself. “If someone pins the Banich assault on you, you will go to jail, because they will assume you met Banich in the mental-health system and that you helped him plan it. Do you understand? Spend time with Naomi Bradford and you go to jail. You will be exactly where you were a year ago, only worse.”
The One Who Eats Monsters (Wind and Shadow Book 1) Page 11