by Jack Kilborn
She went back to the Google page, and realized she needed Photoshop or something like it; some art or picture program to paste the screen capture she took. She clicked on the Start icon and began to search Windows for art apps.
What are you doing?
She clicked on the Accessories folder. There! A program called Paint.
Stop it, Kendal. I’m warning you.
Kendal opened Paint, clicked on Paste. A screen shot of the chat filled the page, and offered her a choice of format options to save it as. Kendal chose jpg and—
Her computer switched off, leaving Kendal to stare at a blank screen.
CHAPTER 17
Joan stared at the blank screen, then switched on Tom’s laptop. As it whirred to life she sipped the swill that passed for coffee in his house. His Mr. Coffee was ancient, with more scales than a komodo dragon. It wasn’t a water issue, because she used bottled. It wasn’t a coffee issue, because she bought the coffee. It was strictly a machine problem. Every time Joan visited, she fought the impulse to buy a new one. But this was Tom’s place, and men didn’t like their cave messed with. Usually, she could subsist on Starbucks, but Joan was hungry, and if she went to the coffee shop she wouldn’t be able to resist getting a scone, and that would spoil her appetite and ruin her upcoming dinner with Tom, which she hoped would still happen despite all signs pointing to him cancelling. So it was drink sludge, or go without caffeine, and Joan needed caffeine like scuba divers needed oxygen.
Tom had given her permission to use his computer, but it still sort of felt like she was spying on him. They’d been dating, exclusively, for years. Because it was long-distance, there was still an intimacy gap that would have ended had they been living together. So Joan was in his small house, drinking his shitty coffee, sitting at his lumpy sofa, with his laptop, which was eight years out of date and had a WiFi connection slightly slower than the Pony Express.
On the plus side, the place smelled like Tom, which she loved. And she certainly loved him.
But she didn’t love living apart from him, and didn’t love Chicago, and didn’t love his job, which was worse than a mistress because mistresses usually came second, and Tom put his work first.
Joan knew she also put work first, but she made ten times the amount of money he did, so she allowed herself the double standard.
After dealing with a few emails that would have been a pain responding to on her phone, Joan noticed a folder on Tom’s desktop called SNIPPER.
Without thinking, she clicked on it and the pictures began to flash in a slideshow.
Big mistake.
Joan had produced several horror movies. She’d even done a sequel in a franchise about a serial killer who built his own unique weapons, which the liberal press gleefully dismissed as torture porn. And Joan, herself, had dealt with violence in the past, at the hands of some people who were the worst of the worst that history had to offer.
But she’d never seen anything, in movies or real life, that even came close to the atrocities in those pictures. They were beyond obscene. Those poor women had been butchered like… well… meat. Horrified, Joan couldn’t look away, even as one photo after another was branded onto her brain. By the time she’d managed to close the folder, Joan had seen things she’d never be able to unsee, enough for a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.
How could Tom stomach that?
Why did he continue to expose himself to such evil?
Joan didn’t ever think about marriage, and especially not children. But if Tom was the guy she was going to spend the rest of her life with, how could she allow that kind of darkness in her family? Joan had a hard enough time separating work life with private life, and a bad day for her was a superstar throwing a hissy fit on set. Tom was dealing with some seriously dark shit. She’d seen him moody. How long before the moodiness became the norm? At a Christmas party, Joan had met Tom’s former boss, a woman named Jack Daniels. Joan’s impression was that Jack had burned herself out. Jack was a tough broad, but the job still beat her down.
Was that the road Tom was headed down? Where catching psychos outweighed being happy? Where dealing with human misery put a permanent stain on your soul?
That’s when a spider chose to crawl up over her hand
It was less than a centimeter long, brown, and its hairy legs tickled as it strolled across her thumb.
Joan yelped, then did the I’m a girl who hates icky things dance, flapping her hands, then her arms, then her hair, graduating into a full body shudder.
She immediately hated herself for her wimpy reaction. Joan had faced some scary things in her life. Scary in a life-threatening kind of way. To overreact to a bug made her feel weak and embarrassed.
Still, she could never get over being bitten by a spider when she was in third grade, and a kid at school telling her it had laid eggs under her skin and baby spiders were going to burst out. As the bite swelled up, Joan became hysterical and her mother had to pick her up.
Joan once had a chance to produce a horror movie about killer spiders, and turned it down without any serious consideration. The picture had gone on to become a minor hit. She never saw it, and had thrown away the screener DVD.
She checked her hand; the spider was gone, of course, because she’d flung it across the room. Then she did a quick inspection of her body, and the surrounding area. If Tom had a spider infestation, she would refuse to stay there for another night. This was Illinois, home to the infamous brown recluse. The bite of the brown recluse was so venomous, it caused more annual fatalities than the black widow. And almost as bad as death was permanent disfigurement. Unlike her third grade tormentor’s fairy tale, brown recluse bites were real and serious. She’d researched Midwestern spiders—and snakes—before her first extended stay with Tom. Joan had seen pictures on the Internet of swollen-to-bursting spider bite wounds with blackish necrotic tissue that had to be surgically removed.
Could that have been a brown recluse? Joan hadn’t looked long enough to notice any distinctive violin shape on its back. There was also another biter known as, believe it or not, the aggressive house spider. Just thinking the name gave her the willies. If Tom had—
Her cell rang, startling Joan so badly she yelped again. She took a calming breath before she looked who it was.
Tom.
And Joan could guess why he was calling.
Irritation chased away the fear, and she picked up.
“Hey, babe. Something big just came up. I’m going to be a little late.”
“Of course you are,” she said. “See you whenever you get home.”
“I can still make a late dinner.”
“I already ate,” Joan lied.
“You did?”
“Did you know you have spiders in your house? One almost bit me.”
“I… uh… I didn’t know that. Should I call someone? An exterminator?”
“You know I don’t like spiders, Tom.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Go catch your bad guy.”
Joan hung up, then went to find her jacket. She’d go grab a Starbucks, and a scone. Maybe several scones.
Erinyes watches her through the laptop webcam.
CHAPTER 18
The sting of Joan’s words still fresh, Tom climbed into his car to meet with his partner. Roy had called five minutes earlier, to update Tom on his progress sweeping the neighborhood, looking for surveillance footage. He hadn’t found any evidence of the mystery man Tanya had mentioned. But he had caught a convenience store video of Tanya walking past the storefront, clutching a large bundle wrapped in plastic.
“Looked like a shower curtain,” Roy had told him.
Tom had noticed the shower curtain had been missing from Kendal Hefferton’s apartment. A plastic shower curtain was an easy way to wrap up bloody evidence from a crime scene and take it with you without dripping everywhere.
Then Roy had called a contact at ABC News, which ran dozens of traffic and weather cameras around the city, and had
picked up Tanya two blocks away, a few minutes later.
No plastic bundle. She’d dumped it.
So Roy and Tom were on Dumpster duty. According to a quick check of Google Maps, there were six possible routes between her two video appearances, and six alleys where she could have dumped the bag.
On the way to the scene, Tom called the number Tanya Bestrafen had given them.
It was disconnected.
Tom radioed Dispatch to locate Tanya’s apartment and DMV info. Tanya’s address, and name, were fakes.
They’d been played.
While at a stoplight, Tom Googled Bestrafen.
It meant punishment in German.
Tom clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The person calling herself Tanya Bestrafen might have been The Snipper, and they let her just waltz right out of the station without even checking her bona fides.
He found Roy in an alley on Halsted, staring at a Dumpster, looking as miserable as Tom felt. Tom parked at the mouth.
“Stinks,” Roy said.
“Sure does. We screwed up.”
“We do stink as cops. But I’m talking about that garbage bin. Smells like someone puked on a dead chimpanzee. I say we call up some uniforms, let them paw through it. Builds character.”
The smell hit Tom, making his nose hairs curl and his eyes water. He swallowed back the gorge in his throat. “Not a bad idea.”
At least, it wasn’t a bad idea until the garbage truck began to drive up the alley.
“Shit, Roy, garbage pickup is today.”
“So?” Tom watched his partner’s face as he put it together. “Aw, shit. They could take the evidence.”
“If they haven’t already.”
If Tanya was the killer, lying to the police wasn’t enough to pin the murders on her. They needed physical evidence. They needed whatever was wrapped in the shower curtain.
Tom held up his badge and approached the truck. The garbage man looked like the kind of guy who grew up to be a garbage man, and the expression he wore was both world-weary and suspicious.
“What?”
Chicagoans weren’t much for small talk.
“We’re looking for evidence that a murderer threw away. It might have been on your route.”
“So?”
“So how big is your route?”
“So big that I’m running late, and the boss don’t pay no overtime.”
Tom could have turned prick, making threats, being the cop that made people hate cops. Instead he went another route.
“No shit. Us civil servants don’t get any respect. My boss is an asshole, too. And he’s got me hunting through alleys when my girlfriend is in out of town.”
“Your point?”
“Ten minutes, tops. My partner checks out the back of your truck, I check out the Dumpster, you guys go have some coffee on me.”
Tom fished out ten bucks.
“This is Chicago, officer. Where are we gonna get two coffees for ten bucks?”
Tom had four more bucks in his pocket. “That’s all I got.”
“I don’t got to do this, you know. You ain’t got no warrant or court order.”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
“Make it quick,” the man said, hitting the hydraulic switches to lift the shovel and open the hopper.
“Got extra gloves?” Tom asked.
“Not for no fourteen bucks.” Then he climbed out of the cab and headed toward his partner. The two of them had a loud chuckle, then headed up the street. They bypassed the Starbucks and went into a bar.
“They left,” Roy said.
“You should be a detective.”
“Didn’t you pay them to sort through the trash?”
“I paid them to go have coffee.”
Roy made a Mr. Yuck face. “So we gotta do it?”
“Chain of evidence. If they touch Tanya’s bundle, that’s one more way for the defense attorney to discredit it.”
“Did they have extra gloves?”
“I’ve got latex gloves in the car.”
“Latex gloves won’t protect me from junkie hepatitis needles.”
“So don’t stab yourself with junkie hepatitis needles.”
Tom climbed up the side of the truck and peeked into the hopper, quickly figuring out the task ahead was impossible. The garbage was several meters deep, and already compacted. To properly sort through it, Tom would have to get permission to seize the truck, dump it someplace, and comb through it with a team of at least ten cops. And that was just for this load. There had to be dozens more garbage cans and Dumpsters in the area. They’d all have to be searched.
This meant a call to the Captain, to authorize funds, space, and manpower. It was doable; The Snipper was high-profile, and the mayor would spare no expense to catch him. But this was an all-night affair, and Joan would resent him for it.
But this was supposed to be Tom’s vacation. Maybe he could appeal to Roy’s good side and get his partner to take over without him. It was worth a—
“Oh hell no!”
Tom shot a look at Roy, who was backing away from the Dumpster, holding his wrist as blood trickled down from his sliced hand.
“This is NOT happening.”
“Was it a needle?” Tom asked.
“It was a goddamn rat. Tommy, a goddamn rat just bit my finger.”
Tom rubbed his jaw. It was going to be a long goddamn night.
CHAPTER 19
“Call the police,” Linda said, sitting on Kendal’s bed.
“And what do I say? I don’t have any evidence.”
Kendal had more or less told Linda about all the weird things that had been happening, leaving out the growing possibility that it was all in Kendal’s head. If this was actually a psychotic break, Kendal would deal with it on her own. She’d die before she went back to a mental institution.
Linda chewed on her lower lip, pouting for cameras that Kendal had turned off. She was a natural ham, and had trouble dialing it down. “Then we need to get some evidence. So it’s been calls, texts, and chat?”
Kendal nodded. “And the van that’s been following me.”
“Okay. Let’s look for the van.”
Linda took Kendal’s hand, led her out of the bedroom and to the front door. Kendal was aware of the cameras on her, watching. Was the stalker watching her now? Or was he still outside, in the van? Or was she just going insane?
If I really am going nuts, do I want to know?
Kendal hesitated, holding back.
“You scared it’s there?” Linda asked.
Kendal was actually more frightened that it wouldn’t be there, but she kept that to herself. “Can you check for me? Please?”
“You’re really that freaked out?”
Kendal nodded. Linda shrugged, strode over to the door, and stuck her head out. She remained that way for ten seconds.
“Hey, girl,” Kendal said, avoiding Linda’s name because of the cameras.
Linda didn’t reply. She didn’t move at all. Kendal’s mind cycled through ridiculous horror movie scenarios. Was Linda so terrified she couldn’t move? Was someone holding a knife to her throat? Would she fall backwards, like an axed tree, with an arrow sticking out of her forehead?
“Hey!”
Linda finally poked her head back inside, her expression serious.
“Is it there?” Kendal asked.
“Is it a black van?”
“Yeah.”
“And is the driver wearing a clown mask?”
Kendal blinked. “What?”
“And holding a giant ax?”
Kendal felt her whole body tense up and her bladder shrink two sizes. “What are you saying?”
Linda flung open the door, revealing an empty street. “There’s no one out here, girl. If there was a van, it’s gone.”
“But you said—”
“I was putting you on. Don’t they have jokes on your planet?”
“That wasn’t funny.”
Lin
da did a dramatic eye roll. “Everything is funny. If you can’t laugh at life, it’s not worth living.” She shut the door. “So what next? You said this pervert is threatening you in chat? Have you reported him to the mods?”
“Huh?”
“The moderators. Have you reported him? They keep records of chats, and record IPs, to keep out the freaks. We went over all of this when you joined the house, skank.”
“I… uh…”
Linda took Kendal by the hand. “Come on.”
They marched back to Kendal’s room, and she was too occupied counting her steps that she couldn’t fully process what Linda had said. They kept records of chats? If so, this could be the evidence Kendal needed. Either that someone was stalking her, or that she was riding the relapse train to Crazytown.
Linda logged onto Kendal’s computer—how did she know the password?—and opened the chat app.
“How did—?”
“I used the Administrator ID. It’s a backdoor into the program.”
“So how did—?”
“Duh, I’m into computers. You know that’s my major. Did my first DDoS when I was sixteen. Crashed a big oil network. Bombarded them with pictures of sea otters in a spill. Okay, here’s the record of your last two hours of chat. Who’s the stalker?”
“He used the screen name Megalon, or something like that. And before that, Alex2, or Alec2.”
Linda scrolled through the past messages. The threats Kendal remembered weren’t there.
“I don’t see anything, babe. You sure you were in your account? Did you log in as another sister?”
“No. It was my account.”
Oh, jesus, I’m crazy. Am I going to have to go back to the hospital? Can they force me to? I’m not a minor anymore. Wouldn’t I have to check into a nuthouse voluntarily? What if I don’t? Maybe I can get better without going back to the institution. Without medication. But how can I—
“Hold on, let me run a scan. I’ve got a packet sniffer on the network. Maybe someone has been poking around. Any third rate hacker with a bit of computing power can go blunt force searching for passwords. And there are programs that aren’t random character generators. They start with the obvious first, names and common numerical sequences. You’d be surprised how many people use dates as a password. A fast system can check every date in human history in a microsecond. If you used your anniversary, you’re fu—hey, what’s this? Looks like we have a visitor. Let’s search his IP.”