by P. D. Martin
“You call that hanging on?” Harris motions to Jonathan, who’s rubbing his free hand up and down his face, almost clawing his skin.
I know how he feels. I know what it’s like to be targeted. “He’s hanging on.”
When I enter the interview room, Jonathan jerks his head my way. “Thank fucking Christ! I’ve been in here for hours. Are you the computer expert?”
I’m not surprised that I’m greeted by this barrage of anger. He’s right; it has been hours. More than three hours, to be precise. Of course he’s angry. He’s angry at the people who did this to him and he’s angry at us for making him wait. And these feelings will be amplified by the fact that he’s been effectively held prisoner twice now. But Jonathan’s the one who set the rules, who wouldn’t talk to Darren or me or anyone until the computer forensics person was on hand.
“I’m not the computer expert, but he’s here now. I’m sorry about the delay, but we wanted to get the best.”
“Well bring him in!”
“I need to ask you some questions first.”
He shakes his head. “The clock is ticking. People’s lives are at stake.” He waves his hands wildly, then looks down at the laptop in his left hand and stops. “Shit. I can’t afford to screw this up.” His voice is soft now, hushed. “Can’t afford to crash the hard drive.”
I press record on my Dictaphone and put it, my pen and my notebook on the table. I fish out my ID from my jacket pocket. “Mr. Cantor, my name’s Special Agent Sophie Anderson from the FBI.”
His face relaxes slightly. “The FBI?”
“Yes. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long, but I’ve flown in one of the Bureau’s top computer analysts from the Cyber Crime Division.” I sit down.
“What’s your role in this?” he asks, but his voice is open, no longer defensive. The FBI’s got a reputation, and at this moment that reputation alone has calmed Jonathan down.
“I’m a criminal profiler. I work at FBI headquarters drafting psychological profiles of different criminals. I’ve been working on profiles for the murders of Malcolm Jackson and Cindy Star.” I mention the victims’ names, even though my statement isn’t entirely accurate—I only reviewed the profile of Malcolm’s killer and I don’t have enough info to profile Cindy’s killer yet. The only profile I actually drafted is of the brunette’s killer, but I don’t know her name.
Jonathan puts the laptop gingerly on the table and sits down. He drops his head into his hands. “So they are dead?”
I can see that he’d come to this conclusion himself, yet a very small part of him had not fully accepted their deaths, had hoped that maybe he was wrong. “Yes. I’m afraid so. Malcolm Jackson was the first victim we found.”
“Yes, he was the first voted out.”
“Voted?” I ask. Even though I’ve heard the basics from Darren, I want it in Jonathan’s words.
“Oh, God. What about the others?” He no longer looks insane, just defeated.
I glance up at the two-way mirror, and feel my gaze lock with Darren’s even though I can’t see him. This is what we were afraid of. We haven’t found them all. “We found one other body that we haven’t been able to ID. It was a woman, long dark curly hair, darkish skin—”
“Brigitte.” He shakes his head. “Brigitte Raine.”
“Do you know the spelling on that?” I ask mostly for Darren and Stone. One of them will look her up while I’m questioning. Any relatives will need to be notified.
“Um…I don’t know.” He’s distracted, not thinking straight. “You haven’t found the others?”
“How many have there been?” I bite my lip, scared by what his answer might be.
“Malcolm was first. Then Cindy, then Brigitte. Then Danny and Ling went the same week, then me. How could we be so stupid? They said it would be the biggest thing to happen to reality TV.”
I concentrate on the names he mentioned. “Do you know Danny’s and Ling’s last names?”
“Yeah. Danny Jensen and Ling Gianolo. Danny moves around a lot.” He corrects himself. “Moved around. He used to be in the army. But his homestate is Texas. At least that’s what he told us. And Ling’s an Aussie, like you.” He says Aussie with an S sound rather than a Z sound—like most Americans do. “She got voted out the week before me.”
I nod. I am intrigued by the Web site, by the computer, but we need to approach the investigation in an orderly manner. Get the names of the others and confirm they are, indeed, missing. This will validate Jonathan’s story. “You said Ling’s last name was Gianolo.”
“Yes.”
“Italian,” I state. I grew up largely in Melbourne, a multicultural city with lots of Italian migrants from the fifties.
“Kind of.”
I look up at Jonathan. “Kind of?”
“Ling was adopted from China,” Jonathan continues. “She was out here for six months before she started college.” He rubs his hand across his forehead. “She was only eighteen, for God’s sake.” He puts his head in his hands and I give him the space of silence. A few seconds pass before he looks up with hope in his eyes. “Could she still be alive? I mean, if you haven’t found her…”
“I’m afraid it’s unlikely, Jonathan.” I pause. Jonathan could be right. The first three bodies could have been about getting our at tention, and weekly kills guaranteed that. Now they could slow things down a bit. But most killers don’t break their patterns. “The killers have followed a strict pattern with weekly kills—I think they’ve just changed what they do with the bodies.” It’s about control for them. Controlling the contestants and, more importantly, controlling what we find. But Jonathan’s put a spanner in the works for the club.
Despite my bad news, Jonathan is now calm and cooperative. I want to put him at ease as much as possible, and I don’t want it to occur to him that there’s any doubt in our minds that he’s the victim, rather than part of the perpetrating team. “Do you want a coffee or a cold drink? Something else to eat?” Stone had given him a sandwich and a coffee as soon as he arrived from the Catalina station, but that was a while ago.
He looks at me with overwhelming gratitude and excitement. “God, I’d kill for another coffee. No, a Coke. And maybe something sweet?” He runs his hand over his short hair. “Except for a pizza during a reward challenge, they’ve had us on Spam and baked beans.”
Spam—the contents of Malcolm’s stomach makes sense now, and I guess he left before the “reward challenge.” I nod at the two-way mirror, a sign for someone to grant Jonathan’s wish. Making people feel comfortable is a common interview tactic. For victims it helps them open up and tell their whole story, and for perps it can throw them off guard. They relax and let some detail slip, say something incriminating. In this case, it has the added benefit of hopefully reducing Jonathan’s paranoia, of building trust between us. His hand still rests on the laptop in a protective manner.
While we wait for Jonathan’s food I focus on the computer. “I’ll take that if you like.” I put my hand out but don’t make a grab for it. Trust.
He hugs the laptop closer to himself, but the wildness does not return. “Like I said, people’s lives are at stake and this is the only thing that could save them. Someone who knows what they’re doing could get Internet log files from this, view the chat-room logs, hopefully track down the video-stream sources and Chester.”
“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I studied computers for two years at college. Before I dropped out.”
“I see,” I say, before backtracking. “Who’s Chester?”
“He was the one that came to the bunker. The only face we ever saw.”
“You never saw anyone else? Did that make you suspicious?”
He shakes his head. “Not at first, no. By the time I started getting suspicious it was too late. We were trapped. Not even Susie, my best friend, believed me.” His eyes widen and he stands up again. “We’re wasting time. We need to get moving.”
T
he door opens and Stone comes in with a Coke and a tray of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Jonathan can’t take his eyes off the food. He dives for the can of soda and pops the top, guzzling for a few seconds before taking a breath. Next he shoves a glazed doughnut into his mouth in two goes. He’s certainly eating like a man who’s been living on beans and Spam for four weeks. In fact, within seconds he’s managed to switch from demanding we take action to being focused on eating. That’s consistent with food deprivation, as is his skinny frame, even though I can tell from his shape that he’s naturally a slim build.
He shoves another doughnut into his mouth and halfway through looks up. His eyes show panic. He puts half of the doughnut back in the tray and sits down, head in his hands. “What the hell am I doing? Susie and Clair are waiting for me.”
“We’ve got a computer forensics expert here, but first, you need to tell me everything that happened. From the start.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not important. We need to get moving. To find the bunker and Susie.” He stands up and starts pacing.
I stand up too. “There is method to the madness. Some minor detail of your story could help us find them.”
He pauses, processing the info. He’s a smart guy; he knows it’s true.
He nods. “Okay.” With the acceptance of the fact that he has to retell his story, Jonathan focuses on food again and picks up his half-eaten second doughnut. He bites down consuming most of the doughnut, and then takes a deep breath.
* * *
AmericanPsycho: I wonder if BlackWidow is having as much fun with Jonathan as I had with Cindy.
NeverCaught: I bet Jonathan’s getting the ***** of his life.
AmericanPsycho: I’m glad he’s gone. I never liked him.
NeverCaught: You were just jealous of him.
AmericanPsycho: Don’t be ridiculous. He’s…a nothing, a nobody.
NeverCaught: Maybe, but not to Susie. I’ve worked it out, dude. You’re hot for Susie.
DialM: You’re right, Never. It would explain all the rough treatment you gave Jonathan.
AmericanPsycho: I admit I like Susie. But regardless, I never liked Jonathan.
DialM: Where are you going to dump his body?
AmericanPsycho: I’ll see what the U of A is like. If the police presence is too much I’ll find somewhere else.
NeverCaught: But they’re not in order!
DialM: Ling will still be killed and dumped in the same manner. There’s just a slight delay while I have her.
26
“It all started a few months ago, when Susie showed me an ad in the Los Angeles Times.”
I cut in. “What’s Susie’s last name?” He’s mentioned her a couple of times and is obviously close to her.
“Dean. Susie Dean.” His eyebrows come together and his brow furrows. He’s worried about Susie.
Darren, who joined us as planned, leans forward. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“No. She’s my best friend.”
“What do you remember about the ad?” I ask.
“Everything.” He looks at me like I’ve insulted his intellect. “It said: Hot new reality TV show looking for contestants. Everyone welcome. Send a five-minute video about yourself to PO Box 556, West Hollywood by December twentieth.”
It sounds like Jonathan’s trying to repeat the ad word for word, rather than summarizing it, yet he didn’t stumble. Very unusual. Most people would paraphrase it and would have difficulty remembering it. December was five months ago.
I let it go for the moment and Darren takes the next question. “So for the past few weeks, you and several others have believed you’ve been contestants in a reality TV show?”
Jonathan nods. “Yup. Competing for a million dollars.”
I shake my head. Over our history, humans have used just about everything to lure potential victims—from candy for the kids to faking an injury—this is just one more. For a wannabe TV star, national media exposure and a million dollars would be too good to pass up. But Jonathan certainly doesn’t strike me as someone who’d want fame. There’s more to him than meets the eye, but what it is I’m not sure yet. And his recounting of the ad bothers me. How can he remember from months ago, word for word? What if he is playing us? Maybe my vision was wrong, or simply misleading. He could have been down there, but as a conspirator, not a true victim. “What did you say the ad said?”
He repeats it again, word for word. I remembered it, but I only had to remember it for a few minutes and I’ve trained my memory for recall. You need it in this job. “And you remember this exact wording because…?”
He taps his head. “Photographic memory.”
I write down the address so we can check it out. A post-office box could have been registered by anyone, and it’s likely they used fake ID.
Darren scribbles it down, too. “Anything else about the ad?”
“It was short but big, taking up a quarter-page spot. There must have been similar ads in Vegas, New York, Boston, and New Orleans, given where all the contestants come from. I figured there were probably more, in other states, but those people didn’t make the final eight. Didn’t get on the show.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how Susie got me into it. I hate reality TV. I think it’s pathetic.”
Now that rings true to me. “So why were you involved?”
“Susie was auditioning and insisted I send in a video, too. She can be very persuasive and I didn’t think either of us would actually get in. But then we were both picked for the next round of applications. And suddenly we were waiting for the limo to arrive out in front of our dump in West Hollywood.”
“A limo?” Darren asks.
Just like Cindy. “We might be able to get something on that, especially if they hired it.” Then again, how many limo companies would there be in L.A.? Plus they managed to avoid detection in Vegas, so no doubt L.A. will be the same.
Jonathan nods. “It picked us up around 2:00 p.m. on March twentieth.”
“Pickup address?”
“Three-fifty-two North Ogden Drive, West Hollywood.”
“Okay. Then what happened?”
“It was Chester who picked us up in the limo. He took our bags, which were supplied by the show, and drove us to a helipad.”
Darren looks up from his notebook. “When did you get the bags?”
“About a week before the pickup date. With the bags came a set of rules of what we could and couldn’t take. No cell phones, no PDAs or pocket PCs, in fact no electronic gadgetry at all. That’s when I wanted out.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Me without a PDA or computer?” He shakes his head. “It made me twitchy just thinking about it.”
I look at the two-way mirror and imagine how Special Agent Gerard would feel if his gadgets were taken away from him. I don’t know him very well, but I know he wouldn’t like it. No computer fanatic would. Hell, even I don’t like being without e-mail for more than a day.
“So why didn’t you back out?” Darren’s voice has a hint of accusation to it.
Jonathan turns his attention from me to Darren and his gaze hardens. “I’d signed a contract and the paperwork had been real clear about what would happen if you bailed. They’d sue you. I’m not exactly living in the lap of luxury, you know.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Cantor?” Darren looks away, like he’s bored.
“I DJ two nights a week and work in a bar four nights. Like I said, not exactly thriving here.”
I lean forward. “Where was the helipad?”
He shakes his head. “I was so damned distracted I didn’t even pay attention. Not like me at all. There was champagne in the limo so we were drinking and looking for hidden cameras.” There’s self-disgust in Jonathan’s voice. I want to reassure him, but I resist my natural instinct. This is an interview, not a therapy session. I need to concentrate on the facts.
Back to the limo. “Did you find any cameras?”
“Sure. I spotted one in the interi
or light.” His hands clench. “They were watching us. Watching our excitement, watching us making fools of ourselves. This was supposed to be Susie’s big break.”
“She’s a singer?” Darren continues to act disinterested.
“Actress.” Jonathan’s voice is defensive, which indicates he has a real relationship with Susie, swinging me back to thinking of him as purely victim, not co-conspirator. “There were three people in it for their performance careers. Susie, Cindy and Clair.”
“Clair?” I ask.
“She’s still in the bunker. Still alive…as far as I know.”
“Actually, let’s do this now. Who’s still in there, besides Susie?” My pen hovers over my notepad.
“Just Clair Kelly. It’s down to the final two.”
I write down the names Clair Kelly and Susie Dean. Final two—that’s reality TV talk. Then again, I guess they are the final two—the final two survivors.
Darren looks at me and I nod. As far as Jonathan’s concerned, the nod could mean anything, but Darren knows it’s my signal to him that I believe Jonathan. That we no longer have to treat him like a potential suspect.
“We’re going to do everything we can to find them.” This time I let myself reassure Jonathan. I stand up and Darren follows suit. “We’ll be back in a second.”
I leave before Jonathan has time to protest verbally—although the look he gives me is enough. We kept him waiting for hours and now I’m leaving when he’s really only just starting his account of the past few weeks.
In the viewing room it’s Harris who speaks first. “Okay, let’s track down these names.”
I hand him the full list—Danny Jensen, Ling Gianolo, Clair Kelly, Susie Dean. “I’d like to find out as much as we can about these other ‘contestants.’ See how they compare to Cindy and Malcolm.” My guess is there’ll be a pattern, in terms of victim type. Neither Cindy nor Malcolm had strong family ties, which makes them ideal choices for this type of scheme. It’s a safe bet that all the victims are isolated in some way, and that was why they were chosen. “I’m going back in.”