by Ben Miller
She smiled, put the brochure down on the kitchen table, walked over to her husband, and threw her arms around his neck. She planted a firm kiss on his lips. “I love you,” she said. “And I am so proud of you.”
He put his arms around her waist and kissed her back.
29
Corinne put her cell phone down on the desk beside her and pressed STOP on her handheld tape recorder. She had made a habit of recording interviews and other important conversations, though, at this stage in her career, she rarely used the tapes; most of what she used in her writing—even direct quotes— came from her memory.
Heath Reilly had given her some great material and an even better promise. Well, maybe deal was a better term than promise. In return for using their language—to a certain extent—in her articles about The Playground Predator, Reilly and CASMIRC would supply her with inside information. Much of this would have to stay off the record for now, but this could prove to be invaluable information in compiling research for a book. Fuck the Lamaya Hollows book— this could be her big break.
She knew part of this first interaction served as a test. She needed to carefully include what Reilly had suggested, but do it in such a way that seemed natural. This would likely require her to go back and rewrite nearly the entire article, but she felt it would eventually pay large dividends. If she passed their test by complying with their requests, the information floodgates could and should open up for her.
The first part of their deal upset her the most, for admittedly quite selfish reasons: She could not apply a nickname to the killer. “The Playground Predator” had come to her almost immediately upon sitting down to write the article, and she loved it. She felt certain that this name would stick, both in the press and in her readers’ minds. The Playground Predator would become a media icon. She thought, as a nickname, it packed more punch that The Boston Strangler, The Zodiac Killer, and Son of Sam combined. It couldn’t measure up to Jack the Ripper, perhaps, but what nickname could. Of course, with a tally of only two murders, The Playground Predator would have to chalk up several more victims to reach the aforementioned killers’ status in infamy. But with a nickname like that, he definitely had an edge. As Corinne well knew, the more iconic the subject, the more sales in the true crime volume chronicling his exploits. For now, in order to honor the deal, she would put the nickname on the back burner. Eventually she would find a way to use it, just not now.
She understood the reasons behind this first stipulation, which Reilly had shared with her. CASMIRC thought that their killer had a thirst for fame. Giving him a name only fed this desire. They wanted to make the killer as anonymous as possible and asked Corinne to spend most of her time in the article discussing the victims. When referring to the unknown killer, Reilly had fed her some quotes that she actually liked. Following this aspect of the deal would be no problem.
Much to Corinne’s pleasure, the topic of Jackson Byrne’s involvement in this investigation— or, more appropriately, lack thereof— remained fair game. She had asked Reilly about Jack’s involvement, to which he replied, “At this time Special Agent Byrne is not involved in this investigation.” When pressed further, Reilly would not comment.
What did this mean? she wondered. Clearly Jack hadn’t done anything to warrant dismissal from CASMIRC. Had he? She felt confident that Jack wouldn’t give her a straight answer. She couldn’t spend much more time contemplating this minor aspect of her story, as she knew she had to get to work on her article; press time stood a mere four hours away.
Corinne reminded herself that a good reporter knows how to use her resources. So she sent an e-mail out to all of her colleagues at The Post, asking if anyone had any information about Jackson Byrne. He had enjoyed some minor celebrity recently, so perhaps his visage would show up on someone’s radar. At this point, it seemed worth a shot.
After this she got to work on her article, beginning by painfully erasing “The Playground Predator” from her headline.
DAY FIVE:
FRIDAY
30
Jack awoke early Friday morning, as usual, though he really had nothing specifically to do today. He planned on going into his office in Quantico to work on getting his personal belongings out of his desk and continuing to tie up loose ends. First, though, he helped Jonah get ready for school, then left to drive him there at the same time as Vicki left for work. On his way home, his Blackberry vibrated, signaling that he had received a text message. As a responsible driver, he waited until after he had parked back in his garage to open the text as he got out of the car.
It was from Philip Prince. Really? Jack thought. That old coot is sending text messages? The world never ceases to amaze me.
He opened the text:
U read The Post 2day? Looks liked youve been outed.
At first Jack had no idea what this meant. He initially paid less attention to the content than he did to the lack of correct grammar and punctuation. Even Philip Prince lost his etiquette when communicating via text. He read the message again, then went into their study on the first floor, where the laptop sat on top of the desk.
Outed? he thought. What could that possibly mean? I’m not gay. Right?
Once the computer had gotten into Windows, he went straight to TheWashingtonPost.com. He scrolled down the page, but didn’t find anything that grabbed his eye immediately. Reluctantly, he typed his name into the search bar in the upper right corner of the page. Within seconds the site returned his search results. He didn’t need to look past the first headline; he knew he had found the one Prince referred to in his text.
31
For the second night in a row, Randall hadn’t slept at all. He didn’t feel the least bit tired, though. He didn’t need sleep. Not when he felt like this.
He needed to continue preparing his Work. He had gone to Best Buy the day before to get supplies. On his way home he stopped by his favorite record store. He found a copy of the album “Elephant” by The White Stripes. He had listened to both sides of the album nine times overnight.
He went to his computer to perform his daily online search for articles about his Work. He went to Google.com and typed in Adrianna Cottrell.
He hated how people used the word “google” as a verb. The online search engine got its name from the term “googol,” which is the number 10 to the power of 100, presumably because the search engine provides a very large number of responses to a search request. Randall had used the term googol on more than one occasion during his days training as a mathematical and electrical engineer, mostly in the abstract, of course. But he had never used it as a verb. He refused to use the name of the search engine in any capacity other than the name of a search engine.
The first few entries in his search results represented sites he had visited before. They bore the color purple rather than blue. The third link down corresponded to a new one. From The Washington Post.
Randall felt a chill of excitement. The Post certainly signalled a step up from WHTM.com out of York, PA.
He clicked on the link.
The White Stripes’ track “Seven Nation Army” kept playing over and over in his head. Randall had heard the song dozens of times, even before last night, but it never got old for him. He considered it their opus. Jack White’s voice both haunted and enchanted him, as always.
The title at the top of the page brought a huge smile to Randall’s face:
FBI CONNECTS CHILD MURDERS IN TWO STATES by Corinne O’Loughlin, Staff Writer
He recognized the name Corinne O’Loughlin. She had followed the Hollows murder for The Post, and she appeared a few times in Jack Byrne’s book. This was huge. This was The Post.
He began reading the article, savoring every word, every letter even, as if each character on the screen were a tiny morsel of delicious food, settling on his tongue as he extracted every last bit of taste. He had read about his Work before, of course, but up to this point nothing equaled this sensation. Reading about his work in The Post was a
thick juicy filet mignon, compared to the McDonald’s hamburger of WHTM.
The article began by introducing Stephanie McBurney. Apparently she liked to go skiing, both water and snow. She had a new baby brother at home. She liked school, especially science class.
Then the article jumped into the life of Adrianna Cottrell. She mostly kept to herself, though she had some friends at school. She loved to read, and had even written a few short stories about a little girl growing up in a small town.
Though this part of the article made Randall a bit uncomfortable, he continued to read carefully, not missing a word. He didn’t like thinking about the girls or the families they left behind. Not that he felt remorse, and certainly not regret; he would just rather move on to more exciting reading.
Then there it began:
Other than being nine years old, what do these two girls, living in small cities 65 miles apart, have in common?
Both were murdered. Both in the last month, both by strangulation, both within the seemingly safe and friendly confines of their favorite playground. According to the FBI, both likely by the same killer.
“We are currently assisting local authorities in both York and Frederick to investigate these crimes,” said Special Agent Heath Reilly of the Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resource Center, or CASMIRC, a special division of the FBI headquartered in Quantico, Va. “At this point we are working under the assumption that these horrible crimes are the work of one person: a nameless, faceless killer preying on defenseless young children.”
Reilly further commented that, at this point, they do not believe there are more murders connected to this killer.
“Based on the unskilled and somewhat clumsy nature of these murders, we do not think our killer has struck before,” Reilly said in an exclusive interview.
Randall stopped reading for a moment. Suddenly this didn’t feel as exhilarating as it had before.
Why were Reilly’s words co cruel? And why was Reilly the one giving a quote to this cunt reporter? Where is Jack Byrne?
He took a deep breath and continued reading:
Currently, details of the crimes are limited.
Randall paused again, reconsidering his first question. He went back to the preceding paragraphs, focusing on the words “nameless” and “faceless,” “unskilled” and “clumsy.”
He jumped back into the article where he had left off. O’Loughlin recounts the details of the crime scenes, circumstances, lack of witnesses, etc.
No mention of the notes.
Randall’s last note had read, in Thai, “I want to be somebody.”
CASMIRC had, to an extent, misinterpreted his last note. Of course, Randall had anticipated that they would make that interpretation, at least for now. Reilly had used specific language to try to insult him, to try to make him feel like a “nobody” when, ostensibly, he had expressed his desire to be “somebody.”
Perfect. All continued to go as planned.
But where’s Byrne?
Both local authorities in York and Frederick stated that they have no suspects right now, confirmed by CASMIRC.
CASMIRC was made famous approximately one year ago for its involvement in the investigation of the Lamaya Hollows murder. The lead investigator Special Agent Jackson Byrne attained subsequent greater fame and minor celebrity status for his book Class Dismissed, chronicling the investigation and highlighting the systematic flaws that led up to the Hollows murder.
According to Special Agent Reilly, however, Byrne is not currently involved in this investigation. Reilly refused to comment further. Sources within The Washington Post state that Byrne held a meeting yesterday with Democratic Senate Majority Leader Montgomery Johnson. Pundits speculate that Byrne may be considering running for political office.
For the McBurney and Cottrell families, all agencies have assured that they will continue to work together to solve these crimes before the killer can strike again.
Randall’s gaze despondently fell from the screen down to his keyboard.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered aloud to the empty room.
No Jack Byrne. Nor his minor celebrity status.
For a moment, Randall couldn’t think. His mind filled with rage. Red, hot, blinding rage.
Byrne played an integral role in Randall’s Work. He had to have him. Could his Work still function without Jack?
No, he thought immediately. No.
He brought his hand to his face, rubbed his forehead. He reconsidered, contemplated his Work. Well, yes, it could still be done. Somehow.
His Work was nothing short of genius, the birth child of a brilliant mind. He could adjust it, tweak it, find another way to fulfill his Destiny.
But I don’t want it to.
I must find a way to adjust the path of my Work to reach the same conclusion, the same breath-taking climax.
He hated that many writers used the word “climax” synonymously with “orgasm.” He always used “climax” in the literary sense, and any other use bothered him. The world was so obsessed with sex it often sickened him.
He looked over at his bookshelf and once again pulled down his tattered copy of Class Dismissed. He hoped to find inspiration within its pages, a spark to ignite the now necessary change in his Work.
Within minutes an epiphany struck him like a bolt of lightning, as epiphanies often do.
He turned his attention back to the computer. He had some research to do, but he knew as well as he knew his own name that this new plan would succeed.
His Work was back on track.
32
“I’m just kind of surprised that I find out about my son’s huge career change – into politics, no less—by reading the morning paper.”
“Sorry, Mom. Things have been moving a little fast lately,” Jack countered through his Bluetooth. His mother had called on his cell five minutes after he’d left the house. He pressed lightly on the brake as traffic slowed ahead of him. Rain fell hard onto the tarmac, which always slowed down his commute. “I just had that meeting yesterday morning, and talks with Philip and some other people are still in the works. I had no idea anything would show up in the morning Post.”
“So it’s true?” Florence Byrne asked. Jack couldn’t tell if he sensed sadness or exhilaration in his mother’s voice, but if he had to bet, he’d say the former.
“I’m pretty sure, yes,” he replied. “But, as I said, things still need to be ironed out.”
“Is it in place of that jackass Schultz?” His mother always had a way of getting right to the point.
Jack chuckled. “Yes, Rupert Schultz. I guess he has been too much of a jackass, even for Capitol Hill.”
“Well, just be careful. You know what they say: ‘Politics makes for strange bedfellows.’”
What an odd thing to say, Jack thought. “Got it, Mom. I’m on my way to work. I’ll talk to you over the weekend, OK?”
“OK. Be careful—it’s raining.”
Jack regarded the deluge around him. “Thanks. Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, Son.”
Jack tapped on his Bluetooth to end the call. Before he could remove the device from his ear, though, it signaled that he had another incoming call. He glanced down at his Blackberry in the console to see the caller ID: Caleb Goodnight. He pressed the center of his ear piece once again.
“Hello, Caleb.”
“Hello, Jack. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“No, not really. I’m just driving into the office in the middle of a glorious mid-Atlantic rainstorm. How are you doing?”
“I’m doing well. The real question is: How are you doing, my friend?”
“Good.” Jack’s reply was purposefully terse. He felt sure that Corinne’s article prompted Caleb’s call also, but he decided to wait to have Caleb bring it up.
“And what’s this I hear about quitting your job and running for office? Have you become smitten with the public spotlight?”
“Something like that,” Jack acq
uiesced. Traffic slowed to a crawl. “How did you hear about it?”
“I read The Post most every day. I’m one of the few New Yorkers who believes that accomplished journalism does exist outside of The New York Times.”
“Right. No, this unique opportunity has presented itself, and I feel I could really try to accomplish some important things.”
“Oh, yeah,” Caleb replied. “Such as?”
Jack paused. “Is this an interview?”
“No, of course not, Jack. I’m just curious. But mostly I’m excited for you.”
“Thanks.” Jack sensed the genuineness in Caleb’s enthusiasm. Traffic in Jack’s middle lane began to pick up.
“Speaking of interview, though…” Caleb began, smiling. “I think having you back on the show—maybe in a couple of months—could be a good opportunity for you.”
“Maybe.”
“And for me, of course. I’m not completely altruistic,” Caleb admitted.
“Of course.” Already Jack felt himself grow weary of talking on this subject. Just then a blue Camry pulled out in front of Jack from the slower right lane. Jack had to hit his brakes pretty hard. “Asshole,” he mumbled.
“Oh, sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean anything…” Caleb began apologizing.
“No,” Jack laughed, “not you, Caleb. I was referring to the asshole who just cut me off in order to go about three miles per hour faster.”
“Oh, that asshole.”
“Yeah. Hey, how about I call you back sometime in the next few weeks, Caleb. I still need to get a lot of the details of this stuff straightened out.”
“Sure, Jack. I hope it all goes well—that’s the purpose of my call. I’ll be pulling for you.”
“Thanks. That means a lot,” Jack said, matching the earnestness of his friend.