by P. J. Tracy
'I know. But you said your guy drowned two nights ago, right?' 'Right.'
'Well, this thing was posted the day before the murder.'
The absence of sound in the room was profound, like a vacuum had sucked the air out of it. 'Are you sure?' Magozzi finally asked.
'Positive. This sick bastard was pre-advertising and then he posted his trophy film to prove he did it.'
* * *
Chapter Twelve
Magozzi looked at the sign on the door that read CHELSEA THOMAS and his mouth turned down. Who named their kid Chelsea? And if you got saddled with a moniker like that, you ought to grow up to be an exotic dancer instead of an FBI profiler. This was going to suck, big time.
Ten minutes later he was in a private office that looked like every other FBI office he'd been in. Desk, chair, bookcase, Venetian blinds. Robot land.
And, oh Lord, was she ever a Fed, through and through. Came in from a side room in a shapeless blue suit and one of those pasted smiles that flashed on and off so fast you could never be sure you'd seen it at all. She had real blond hair pulled back in a bun, apologizing for its brightness, the fair skin and blue eyes that went with it.
'Detective Magozzi.' She held out her hand for a cursory shake, then sat behind her desk and opened a thin file folder centered on the blotter. 'Thank you very much for agreeing to see me.'
'Agent Smith asked nicely.'
'I'm sure he did.'
'But he wasn't real specific about the reason.'
She nodded. 'I've been working these murders since the Cleveland film, never expecting to have one land on my home turf. Talking directly to the detective in charge of the case might help with my profiling.'
Magozzi pointed at the file on her desk. 'You got our case summary, right?'
Yes.'
'Everything's in there.'
'There might be something else, something you didn't think was significant that could come out in conversation.'
Magozzi tried not to roll his eyes. Man, she sounded like every shrink he'd ever talked to.
'Sit down, Detective, please. Would you like coffee? Tea?'
'It's five o'clock. You have a beer?'
'Sorry.'
'Not as sorry as I am.'
She was already busily writing on her little pad.
You're taking a lot of notes for a meeting that's lasted less than a minute. You mind telling me what's so interesting?'
She put down her pen - fountain, not ballpoint - and looked up at him. 'I was just prefacing our talk with the observation that you do not trust the Bureau in general, or my specialty of profiling in particular. Correct?'
Magozzi exhaled noisily and fought off the Minnesota impulse to be polite at all costs. 'I put profiling on about the same level as consulting psychics.'
'It's a little more scientific than that.'
'Oh yeah? Well, the way I see it, you people go through the records cops made, see that a real high percentage of serial killers are male, white, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-seven, blah, blah, blah, then predict that any serial killer is male, white, and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-seven, and then when those same cops nab the guy, you say, "See, what did we tell you?" There was a fake gypsy at my high school carnival that did a hell of a lot better than that.'
Dr. Chelsea Thomas put her elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, and Magozzi tried to analyze the body language. God knew she was analyzing his, and the least he could do was return the favor. Man, he hated shrinks. He folded his arms across his chest and tipped back his head, looking down his nose at her. See that? Defensive arm posture; disdainful head position. Take cover.
Obviously he wasn't having a whole lot of luck intimidating her, because she smiled at him. A really great smile. 'It is five o'clock. Past five, in fact, and there's a terrific Irish pub a few blocks over with some great stuff on tap. If you're up for it, it might be an environment a little more conducive to establishing a productive working relationship. What do you say?'
Magozzi frowned at her, sensing a trap. 'Are you asking me out on a date?'
She laughed quietly. It was a nice laugh, but humiliating, all the same. 'Absolutely not. But this isn't analysis, Detective, and it certainly isn't mandatory. I was hoping that we might be able to help each other on this case, but clearly you're uncomfortable here.' She hesitated for a moment. 'And obviously you've had a very bad day.'
That was one of the great come-ons with the mental health crowd. From priests to psychiatrists, the standard opening was something that was supposed to sound sympathetic, but was really a trick to get you to spill your guts. Magozzi ought to know. He'd used the same tactic in interrogation rooms often enough. 'Killers are getting their rocks off posting films of real murders on the Internet, and at least one of them advertised who they were going to kill ahead of time. If you're even close to human and you've read that file you've had a pretty goddamned bad day, too.'
She looked down at the file in the center of her very tidy desk, then pushed her fingers back through her hair, making it stand up and look weird. This was body language Magozzi understood, because it was brutally honest. Women did not muss coiffed hair or rub mascaraed eyes voluntarily; this was impulsive, careless, and real. 'I've read the file. And, yes, I've had a pretty bad day. And I could use a beer. Maybe two, because it looks like all the beasts are coming out to play.'
It was indeed a terrific pub, with a wild Irish band and the smell of hops and sweat and probably twenty criminals who looked a lot like Harley Davidson doing jigs in their motorcycle boots. Whatever the on-tap stuff was, it hit Magozzi's system like great-grandmother's practice quilt, fluttering down over your body and head, blocking the light, making a hidey hole.
'I've never seen anything like this,' Dr. Chelsea Thomas was saying, words running together just a little, because she was on her second beer, as promised, and she wasn't used to it. 'People use the Web to post documentation of their bad behavior all the time.'
'Like those high school girls beating up their classmate.'
'Exactly. But aside from the very rare snuff film that appears on an underground site, we've never seen film of a real murder posted, certainly not on sites like YouTube, and that's what frightens me. Whoever is posting these films is bragging'
Magozzi stared at her. 'Bragging to whom?'
'The whole world. The point is, the FBI has confirmed five actual homicides with posted videos - six, counting your river killing - all of which have happened within the last four months. This is truly chilling'
Well, yes, it was, but in spite of that fact, Magozzi had part of a beer inside and a warm environment outside and a pretty woman across from him, and he was starting to get a little too comfortable. He waved over a waitress and ordered hamburgers and onion rings. This was bar food - bad food - and he was salivating like Pavlov's dog waiting for it. He tried to remember the last time he'd stopped at a bar on the way home for a couple of brews and some saturated fat, and couldn't. 'You and my partner think alike.'
'Is that good or bad?'
'Bad. You've just given validity to his theory that it's a traveling serial killer taking advantage of a world-wide audience.'
Dr. Chelsea Thomas shrugged out of her blue suit jacket and showed a white blouse with little frilly ruffles around the collar that interested Magozzi not at all, because Grace wasn't wearing it. 'Let's hope so.'
'Excuse me?'
'Look at it this way. Take your average serial or thrill killer. All that bullshit- ' she stopped abruptly and blinked. 'Oh dear. Sorry about the language.' She pushed her beer mug away. 'Anyway, all that dogma about killers waiting to get caught, wanting to get caught, makes people think they're remorseful and need to expunge their guilt. Pure nonsense. They're looking for the celebrity. Heck, some of them repeat like they were going for the Guinness Book of Records title for most hits, or most horrible hits, whatever. Trouble with a career like that is you can't show off how good you are.'
; 'So this killer is looking for attention.'
'Not attention. Fame. There's a big difference. Attention invites scrutiny, and, like I said, these sickos don't want to be caught. From the conception to the crime, to the fear they create in the public and the frustration they cause the cops, this whole process is all about power. But we're a visual society now. Headlines don't cut it because nobody reads anymore, and cops never show the butchered victims on the nightly news. Enter the Internet. "See what I did? See what I can do to you?"
Magozzi actually felt his face crinkling up, which, for some inexplicable reason, made her smile again.
'So. If serial killers can show their work on the Net, the power surge intensifies. The film is the new trophy. They don't have to cut off body parts or snatch bloody panties to hide in their walls. They don't have to escalate to garner attention, which is how we've always caught them. They deliver visual evidence to the whole world of what they do like some Hollywood mogul premiering a new movie, and we are never going to catch these people again.'
Magozzi blinked at her. 'That's really negative.'
She leaned back as the waitress slid a plate piled with poison food in front of her. 'Well, that's a shame, because that was the good news. Just what serial killers might do with the Web. Too bad I don't think that's what's happening here, because it's much worse.' She picked up an onion ring, took a bite, and closed her eyes. 'Oh God, that's good. I haven't had one of these in years.'
'Wait just a minute. Put down that onion ring'
Once she started giggling, she couldn't seem to stop. 'Oh Lord, cops really talk like that, don't they? I feel like I'm in a movie. And I also think I may have had a bit too much to drink.'
'You've had a beer and a half.'
'I know. But I've never actually had a whole entire beer before. Ever.'
'Are you kidding?'
'No, I'm Mormon. At least I used to be.' That made her laugh, too, and she covered her mouth with her hand like a kid with braces. 'Do you think you could order me a glass of milk?'
Magozzi was trying not to smile, because it didn't seem appropriate, seeing that she'd just told him serial killers weren't the worst thing in life. 'Do not drink any more of that beer. Do not get drunk. When I get back, I want to know what's worse than serial killers using the Internet.'
She gave him a silly little smile and picked up her hamburger.
Big surprise. Irish pubs did not serve milk. He had to go to the convenience store at the end of the block and then race back before Miss Psychiatrist FBI agent/profiler passed out in the booth. He slammed down a gallon of skim.
'That's really big.' Her plate was almost empty, and she looked almost normal.
'I wanted one of those little cartons you used to get in grade school. Profiteering money-hungry bastards don't carry them. Don't even carry quarts, or half gallons. You want milk, you lay down your pension.'
'Sorry. I'll buy your dinner. Which is now cold and greasy.'
'Thank you for the review.'
She pushed away her plate with one finger and smiled. 'We're talking about terrible things, and this is very unprofessional, but I want you to know I'm actually having a nice time tonight, which was totally unexpected, and really appreciated.'
Magozzi smiled and took a bite of his burger. It was cold and greasy and fabulous. What's in this?' he asked the exasperated waitress as she dodged drunken dancers and passed their table.
'A dead animal. What do you think?'
Chelsea Thomas, should-have-been exotic dancer, watched him dig in. 'Do you have any women friends, Detective?'
He shook his head while he chewed. 'Never have. I have women I love, and women I lust after.'
'Do you lust after the woman you love?'
'I do.'
She picked up her last onion ring and held it up to the light like a jewel. 'That's just about as perfect as it gets, isn't it? Tell me about her.'
Magozzi put his burger down on the plate and stared at it. This was just about the strangest evening he'd ever spent in his life, which was saying something when you were a homicide cop. Maybe it was the beer or the mood or the fact that they were sitting at a table in a bar with a gallon of milk between them, but whatever it was, he opened his mouth and Grace MacBride fell out. He told her everything; things he'd never thought aloud to himself, let alone voiced to anyone else. She listened to every word, drinking it in like it was some kind of magic elixir, and when he was finished, and embarrassed, she did a man thing. She ignored all the intimate feelings he had shared as if they had never happened, and changed the subject.
'This is what I'm really afraid is happening, Detective.'
The room was dark except for the halogen puddles that spilled down onto the worktable, illuminating two pairs of gloved hands that cast eerie, mesmerizing shadows on the wall as they carefully poured viscous liquid into the containers and lined them up in the center of the table - none of them touching, all of them far from the edge. Such a simple task, but the first part had taken over an hour.
All the practice runs had been helpful, but essentially worthless. This time it was the real thing, and nerves crept into the equation, making hands shake and hearts beat faster.
When the last container was sealed, they both stepped back from the table a few steps and just breathed, letting the nerves settle before part two.
They'd prepared the outer packagings first, and those were all waiting on the floor with their tops open like hungry baby birds. The interior shields were secure, meticulously placed and anchored.
Lowering the inner containers was slow, methodical, and nerve-wracking. A drop of sweat loaded with DNA fell and spread on one of the packages. It would leave a telltale watermark, and that package was immediately discarded and replaced with a spare. They'd thought of everything, and it had all been so pathetically simple, as most acts of genius were. Everything you needed to know was all right there on the Internet.
They had often wondered why no one had done it before, but it was certain that a lot of others would do it soon, because it wouldn't be long before the whole world was watching.
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Judge James Bukowski had celebrated his release from the Hennepin County Hilton by re-toxing with an excellent bottle of sour mash that had quelled his shakes and improved his spirits considerably; at least up until the point he'd lost sentience, sometime around noon.
Hours later, when he finally came to in the chilly embrace of his Corbusier chaise, his furry mind surprised him with a singular, revelatory thought that seemed deeply profound to him, primarily because it didn't involve the logistical planning of getting to the bathroom for aspirin and Ativan: he really hated this goddamned fucking uncomfortable overpriced chair. He really hated it.
Wife Number Four had managed to convince him, after several years of passive-aggressive torture and craven guilt- tripping, that original Mid-Century Modern was not only chic, not only a shrewd investment opportunity, but also 'outrageously comfortable' - no doubt a paraphrase from some article she'd read, because the woman had never strung a polysyllabic sentence together in her life.
Well, the über-cow had been wrong, so wrong, no doubt brainwashed by Architectural Digest, her flaming-faggot designer, and her pathetic, social-climbing friends, just as she'd brainwashed him. The difference was, the hall of famer from the pantheon of idiots had figured that out before he had, obviously - because the chair was about the only thing of value he'd gotten out of that divorce. And if he'd been sober a single day during the five-year marriage, he would have realized this, and probably a lot of other things he'd missed in the black hole of dead brain cells.
Where the hell had that come from? he wondered to himself, and then, for the first time in a long while, the judge smiled a genuine smile. Little nuggets of self-reflection had always raised their ugly, unmanageable heads throughout his life, and they terrified him. Bourbon helped with the whack-a-mole game he played with his deeper thoughts when th
ey inconvenienced him, but tonight, for some reason, things seemed just a little bit different. And as much as he wanted to believe he'd come to this pivotal moment on his own, he had to give Detective Magozzi credit for facing him squarely last night and calling him out. What happened to the respected judge?
What happened, indeed! He'd never believed in second chances, not in life and not on the bench, but he was going to make an exception right here and now. It was time for him to stop being such a self-pitying, self-indulgent fuck and get back to the business of doling out justice. He made a mental note to send Magozzi a fruit basket or something.
Feeling more sober than he had in several decades, and with a renewed sense of purpose, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Ex-Wife Number Four. She wasn't on speed-dial, but the number lived on vividly, and unpleasantly, in his memory. Of course she didn't answer - she never did - but that didn't really matter.
'Jennifer, this is Jim. No need to call back, I just wanted to let you know that the Corbusier and I have finally decided to amicably part, due to irreconcilable differences. And instead of consigning it with Christie's, as was my initial thought, I've decided that I want you to have it. I know you love it so much, and who wouldn't, being that it is so outrageously comfortable. I will arrange for a delivery within the next few days, I hope that suits you. That's all.'
He hung up, pulled himself off the chair that had catalyzed his new beginning, and instead of going to the liquor cabinet or the pharmacy that was his bathroom medicine cabinet, he went straight to the gun safe and selected a Remington 870 Express. 'Here comes the judge.'
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
The rising sun was just beginning to paint the sky and waken the city, but the Monkeewrench office lights were still burning, as they had been all night. Annie and Grace had finally crashed in guest rooms at five a.m., but Harley and Roadrunner kept working, fueled by a steady intake of overcaffeinated beverages and chocolate.