The Great Crime Spike: A Dystopian Thriller Novel (Liberty Down Book 1)

by Eric M Hill

  “What?” asked Jeffrey, sliding the encrypted phone into his pocket.

  Frank pointed at the screen. “See the pulsating green?” He spoke quickly, without looking at Jeffrey, as though he’d miss the crescendo should he look away for a moment. “That’s area ten. There’s something new going on there. We used to think that it was the amount of activity or inactivity that contributed or caused these maniacs to act like this. And there is some truth to that. But that’s like knowing the difference in a tropical depression, a tropical storm, and a category five hurricane. Murderers like Killer Miller are category fives.

  What we need is not simply to know that we’re dealing with a category five. We need to be able to keep a four from becoming a five, or a three from becoming a four, or…” Frank’s eyes widened more as he compared the screen’s data with the screen’s images, “or preventing the cat five by preventing the tropical depression. Kill it at the root.”

  “But—” Jeffrey began his questions.

  Frank heard none of them. He focused. There was nothing and no one else in that room except what he saw on the screen.

  Killer Miller looked at his captured prey. The whore he had punished. He turned the shower on to cold. She stirred…barely, and with groans. He seemed to be contemplating what to do further. Those looking through his eyes couldn’t see the disinterest now on his face. But it became apparent when he turned and walked away.

  Frank, Mark, and Ashley knew the significance of the rolling screen before them. Hallway. Down the hallway. Bannister. Stairs. Down the stairs. Turning corner. Opened basement door on main level. Stairs. Down stairs. Door to backyard. Door knob. Knob turned. Door opened. Door closed. Sprint toward the woods.

  They watched in awe as the trees raced past them on the screen, and as Killer Miller got into his getaway car and drove off.

  Frank and Mark broke out into wild jumping and screaming and celebrating.

  “My God, we did it! It works!” said Frank.

  “It works! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!” said Mark, with hands raised and fists pumping.

  Dr. Engelberg wondered at what he had witnessed and realized he was in a room full of insane people. Somehow these people had interpreted the rape and vicious beating of an innocent woman as a victory. For a moment, this was too sick for him to articulate.

  It wasn’t too sick for the man who had just relayed to the president in so many words that his chances of being reelected had just gone down the toilet. “I was told that there was a high probability that I would witness history this evening. That with the help of Dr. Engelberg, I’d witness the tipping of a domino that would dramatically reduce violent crime.

  “Forgive me if I don’t share your exuberance. But all I’ve seen is a woman get raped and nearly beaten to death. Obviously, I’m missing something.”

  The Chief Research Officer, Science and Technology Branch, Department of Violent Crime Eradication looked at his immediate boss, the Assistant Deputy Director of Science and Technology Branch, Department of Violent Crime Eradication as though he had just won a hundred-million-dollar lottery. “You tell him.”

  Frank walked up to the man and gripped both his shoulders. “Killer Miller is named Killer Miller for a reason. He never walks away. He kills them all.”

  “All? What do you mean all? There’s been others?” Dr. Engelberg asked weakly.

  Frank kept his grip and kept talking to the president’s special assistant. “There’s been eight other women. He killed them all. That’s what he does. He’s the shower rapist. He confronts them in the shower. He rapes them in the bedroom. He beats them in the bedroom. He stabs and kills them in the shower. Every time.” He loosed one of his hands and pointed as he said, “Every time.”

  My God, I’ve murdered eight women, thought Dr. Engelberg.

  Mark continued with giddiness. “This changes everything. I know what it looks like, but trust me. This wasn’t a failure. Yes, he raped and beat her. We’ll study that for sure. But what we must focus on even more is that Killer Miller is the perfect psychopathic killer. We’ve studied him a long time. We have two years of physiological data and eight murders…and of course, we have today’s experiment.

  “What makes Killer Miller the perfect killer for our purposes is that before this event it would’ve been impossible for him to not kill the woman. Once he gets into his chemical kill zone, he…can’t…stop. He was in his zone. The data proves it.

  “Think of a heroin addict badly in need of a fix. He breaks into a house to get it. He finds it. It’s sitting on the table waiting on him. He ties his arm. His veins are bulging, begging for the poison. Everything in him begs for it. He puts the needle to his arm, looks at it for a while, drops it, unties his arm and leaves.”

  “He’s a junkie. He’ll be back,” said Jeffrey, cynically. “That’s what they do.”

  The elated man bounced a happy finger in the air. “Right…right. But we’ve watched this junkie in a real world experiment nine times. We have his charts. The data doesn’t lie.”

  “And what does the data say?” Jeffrey pressed.

  “If we’re reading this correctly, he won’t be back. Something happened in area ten when he was at the height of his zone. Something that significantly lessened the promise of pleasure that Mr. Miller would’ve gotten had he followed his hardwired need to murder. The green we saw…and the data…and the fact that eight women are dead and one is not...”

  “He raped and beat the hell out of that woman,” Jeffrey pressed.

  Ashley spoke up. “Violent crime comprises four offenses. In order of egregiousness: murder, rape, robbery, and aggravated assault. There were nearly two hundred thousand murders last year. Two…hundred…thousand. It would still be dangerous as hell, but what if the Engelberg drug just worked on murders? Say ten percent? Twenty or thirty percent?”

  Jeffrey started calculating. He could see the charts. Arrows going up, up, up, ever since the Great Crime Spike. Then a dramatic drop. He smiled inside and looked hopefully, yet warily, at the two men. He looked at Ashley, then Dr. Engelberg. “It’s your research…your drug. What do you think?”

  A man’s eyes dissolved in his head because of me.

  Eight women raped…beaten…murdered because of me.

  This poor woman raped, beaten, almost murdered…because of me.

  Dr. Engelberg swallowed back what earlier had threatened to come out as vomit all over their high-tech floor. “What do I think? I think all of you are criminally insane and should be locked up. Let me out of here.”

  ***

  One week later Dr. Engelberg was on a much needed and long overdue family vacation. He stole a glance at his wife. Then he looked up at the car’s rearview mirror at his two little girls. A beautiful woman and two beautiful angels. The woman that Killer Miller raped and beat was beautiful, he thought. That could’ve just as easily have been my wife.

  As ugly as his thoughts were, Hawaii was irresistibly and breathtakingly beautiful. He carefully navigated the winding two-lane Hana Highway and captured periodic glances below. The view from two-hundred feet above the alluring waters of the Pacific Ocean would forever be etched in his mind.

  He rounded a corner and wondered when his nightmares would ever end. This had been decided for him. In a moment, he’d have one last nightmare before all his nightmares ended forever.

  Approximately two thousand feet above, a hovering drone that was being controlled by a GS-7 civil servant relayed a clear feed of Dr. Engelberg’s vehicle. The feed was shared with three waiting people at the sprawling headquarters of the Department of Violent Crime Eradication, Special Services Division.

  Five seconds later, Dr. Engelberg felt the motion pedal disappear from under his foot and the smart steering wheel do something fatally dumb. It jerked the speeding vehicle hard to the right. The SUV hit a low rock wall, climbed over it, and went flying. It hit the bed of rocks two hundred feet below and rolled over into the ocean.

/>   The Department of Violent Crime Eradication would find someone else to continue the research of the unpatriotic scientist. Someone smarter. Much smarter.

  Chapter 8

  Dr. Anderson had not been surprised at the invitation. Nor that it had been an invitation and not a kidnapping. The kidnapping would come later—if the decision to permanently silence him required such a crude tactic. For the moment, he knew, a course so irreversible as kidnapping could only be authorized by the President of the United States.

  The fact that he was walking toward the front entrance of the Department of Violent Crime Eradication headquarters building alone and of his own accord, relatively speaking, was proof enough that the president had—at least for the moment—fought back the pack of intelligence community wolves who felt that any brilliance not under their firm control was a threat.

  Dr. Anderson looked at the towering building as he approached. He noted the absence of obvious cameras. Oh, they were there. No doubt about that. But President Cuning—another n and he’d own the most descriptive name ever—had answered the growing accusations of the federal government’s penchant for invasion of privacy with an executive order that curtailed the use of obvious cameras in federal buildings. We can’t have our citizens feeling like this is a police state, he had said shortly after signing the order.

  Always the fox, thought Dr. Anderson. Every day the nation is becoming more and more a police state. But we don’t want the citizens to feel that we’re becoming a police state, now do we?

  Dr. Anderson also thought as he crossed the invisible fifty-foot gun free zone for federal buildings that he’d just broken federal law. The sensors around the building had no doubt identified his violation. But law or no law, he wasn’t walking down any street in America without at least two loaded guns.

  And besides, there was no way he’d meet with intelligence community agents unarmed. Yeah, ultimately, and probably even in the short run, a couple of guns wasn’t enough to stop the government from killing him. But if they got him, he’d feel better approaching the pearly gates of heaven knowing that he showed up with hot gun barrels and empty magazines.

  He entered the building and slowly walked toward one of four check-in lines. Or toward where the lines would’ve been had anyone except him had been trying to enter the building through that entrance. Guess there weren’t that many people interested in eradicating violent crime. At least not at 9:45 a.m. But that wasn’t entirely true.

  Thirty feet away and to the right of Dr. Anderson a door swung open. Two men who were extremely committed to preventing, and if necessary, eradicating violent crime on the grounds of the Department of Violent Crime Eradication rushed toward him carrying Anderson BT-32s, submachine guns that used his patented technology. They looked quite differently when aimed at him.

  “Sir, stop! Do not move! This is a federal building. You are not authorized to carry a firearm on these premises.”

  Thoroughly startled, Dr. Anderson said to the approaching men as he went to raise his hands, “I have an appointment—”

  “Do not move your hands! Do not move your hands or I will shoot you!”

  Dr. Anderson froze.

  A man wearing a dark suit and a darker smile was observing with delight from a distance. He dropped the smile. “He’s okay,” he said, calling out across the super large lobby. “Please…good heavens, don’t shoot him. That’s Dr. Anderson. That’s his weapon you’re carrying. He’s okay.”

  The weapons lowered slowly, and Dr. Anderson’s hands even more slowly.

  “He’s carrying two loaded firearms, sir,” one of the highly motivated violent crime eradicators said, his intense eyes still burrowing into the violator’s eyes.

  “I know, I know. My screw up. Didn’t get his waiver into the system.” Both guards turned and entered the room they had sprung out of. “Dr. Anderson, Jacob Kellerman, Director of Violent Crime Eradication. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you,” the man said, with his hand extended. They shook. “Of course, I know of you and your work. Who doesn’t?”

  Jacob—biblical name for Deceiver. What was it with these guys and their names? Cuning, Jacob, was this God’s way of warning the world? The director looked every bit the part of a deceiver. He was tall, maybe six-foot-three. Caucasian, but with a dark complexion. His hair was jet black and combed neatly, government agent style. Eyebrows, dark black and a bit bushy. Eyes, like a card shark’s, studying and interpreting his opponents. Smile, as phony as they came.

  “Notoriety’s a double-edged sword,” said the doctor. “Guess we’re all just playing the cards dealt us. Thank you for saving my life. Your security’s very motivated.”

  The director smiled. “And thorough.”

  Dr. Anderson heard the unspoken statement loud and clear. He nodded. “I bet. It’s quite impressive to be able to see my two concealed guns and to know they’re loaded.”

  “The right technology in the right hands…it can save many lives,” said the director.

  “The right technology in the wrong hands can destroy many lives,” said Dr. Anderson.

  The director took on a grim face and said remorsefully, “We’re in an existential war. The nation’s gone crazy. There’s no way to win it without some destruction. The only thing we can do is try to limit the magnitude of that destruction. Nobody likes collateral damage.”

  “Is the Constitution part of that collateral damage?” asked Dr. Anderson.

  The serious look left the director’s face. He smiled. “I apologize. You were so gracious to accept my request for a meeting on short notice. The department can do better than to host a meeting in the lobby with the world’s smartest man.”

  The VCE director turned and led his guest to an elevator. They stepped in and he pushed six. Better than the basement, thought Dr. Anderson. Six floors of awkward, silent, mental chess moves. The door opened. “After you, Dr. Anderson. To the left.”

  They took several steps when Director Kellerman stopped. “I’m sorry, Dr. Anderson, I failed to mention that there will be others at this meeting. I hope I haven’t presumed upon you.”

  “Director, it has been my experience that except for private meetings with the president, when I am invited to a meeting by any one of the now eighteen IC directors, unless privacy is explicitly stipulated, there will be no less than ten people in the room—sometimes more if you count off-site attendees.”

  The director laughed. “Then I’m not in trouble. There’s only seven of us.”

  “And will there be any unnamed, unseen off-site attendees?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “Yes,” answered the director.

  The president, thought Dr. Anderson. “Very well.”

  They entered a large room. Six people sat around an oblong table. The two seats at opposite ends of the table were vacant. Director Kellerman pointed at the spot closest to the door. “Please, Dr. Anderson, sit here.” He did and the director took the other seat. “I believe I’m the only person here besides our new FBI director, Nancy, who is just meeting Dr. Anderson.”

  “Hello, Dr. Anderson,” said Nancy Fulcrum, former six-term congresswoman and two-term governor of Texas, “it’s truly a pleasure to see you again.” This was heartfelt. He had donated millions to her political campaigns because he was impressed with her positions and sponsored bills on individual freedom, and because she’d actually followed through on campaign promises to protect the privacy rights of Texans.

  “Hello Gov—Director Fulcrum. Congratulations on your promotion?” He knew that she’d been selected by President Cuning to be FBI director because she had a reputation of honor and integrity and respect for the Constitution and he had none of those things.

  “D.C.s not Texas, but then nowhere but Texas is,” she said.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” he said, being from Austin, Texas himself.

  “Well, one down and five to go,” said Director Kellerman. “For the record, please state your names and positions. I’ll go first a
nd we can go around the table, beginning at my left. Jacob Kellerman, Director of Violent Crime Eradication.”

  “Alan Christian, Deputy Director of Violent Crime Eradication.”

  “David Beams, Director of Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “Lieutenant General Johnny Matthews, Director of Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “Sheila Chiang, Secretary of Homeland Security.”

  Admiral Jimmy T. Winthrop, III, Director of the National Security Agency and Central Security Service.”

  “And again no one from the Department of Integrity and Government Oversight,” said Dr. Anderson. Not that they could or would do anything to put the brakes on the government’s corruption and lawbreaking. Half of them were probably in the back pocket of the biggest culprit of them all—President Cuning.

  There were awkward grimaces, elongated breaths, and shared looks of contempt bouncing off one face and then another. A smile with a stake driven through it rolled onto Director Kellerman’s face. “Dr. Anderson, what we need to discuss with you—”

  Anderson interrupted. “According to the Integrity and Government Oversight Act of 2030, that lest we forget was enacted because of the CIA’s illegal activities—the Islamic Front of America being only one of them—any meeting among directors, assistant directors, or deputies, the top three of an agency categorized as a member of the Intelligence Community, or any combination thereof of the top three, shall have in their physical or virtual representation a senior member of the Department of Integrity and Government Oversight, OR shall be granted a recordable waiver of such representation, and that waiver shall be provided to the majority and minority leaders of the U.S. Senate and the U.S. House of Representatives within twenty-four hours of the meeting, AND exact minutes of the meeting, as well as full names and organizational positions of all attendees shall be provided to the majority and minority leaders of the U.S. Senate and the U.S. House of Representatives, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”