by David Beers
"A bit different, Luke? The kid is two breaths away from being seriously disabled. He's a genius, no doubt, but different isn't how I'd describe him."
"I think you're underestimating him. He's nowhere near handicapped, just not comfortable enough around us to open up. By joking with him, we can probably help him."
"If he understands we're joking," Tommy said.
"He will."
"Alright, I'm not going to argue about this. Just take it easy on him, okay? For me, if not for the kid's sake."
"Sure," Luke said.
"I'm going to go call the parents. Let's try to talk to them today. You want to do it, or do you want me to?"
Luke looked out his office. The boy was standing at his own desk, having not sat down yet. "I'll do it. I'll bring Windsor with me."
"Mr. And Mrs. York, I'm Special Agent Luke Titan. This is agent Christian Windsor. You spoke to our partner over the phone. We will be conducting today’s interview."
The two of them sat in a simple interview room; one side held one way glass, and a table rested in the middle of the room. Christian and Luke sat on one side, while the obviously frightened parents sat on the other.
"You're Luke Titan?" Mr. York asked. "The Luke Titan?"
"Yes, but my reputation's been greatly overblown. Right now, I'm only concerned with finding your daughter, Lauren. Same with Christian here. We need to start by discussing the last time you heard from, or saw, Lauren."
"Yeah, we already told all of this to the police, but they were too concerned with that freak show you guys held the news conference about. She's not involved in that, right? You're not talking to us because she might be a part of what that psycho is up to, are you?"
"We need to know her last known location; once we discern that, we'll be in a much better place to find her," Luke said, his voice calm and collected despite the increasing panic in the father's voice.
"I talked to her three days ago," Mrs. York said. "We spoke about what she wanted me to cook for her birthday dinner this Sunday. She said she was going out with her friends on Saturday, but Sunday she'd be over for dinner. She turned twenty-three yesterday." Tears swam in the woman's eyes, but she fought to keep them from falling.
"And you called her the next day?"
"No," Mrs. York said. "She normally calls me every day. Or if not every day, then at least four or five times a week. I usually wait on her."
"When did you finally call?" Luke said.
"Sunday morning. I was surprised when I hadn't heard from her, because of the dinner I was cooking."
"No answer, though, correct? Did you call her friends?"
Mrs. York nodded, and her voice cracked as she spoke. "They didn't hear from her on Saturday. They said they had all planned to go out, but she didn't answer her phone all day."
"Thank you, Mrs. York. We'll need their names and numbers before you leave, so that we can talk with them as well. Does Lauren have a boyfriend?"
"She did," Mr. York said. "She stopped dating him six months ago. His name is Tucker Heraldson. We'll get you his number."
"Agent Windsor," Luke said, turning to his left. "Do you have any questions you'd like to ask?" Luke didn't really care what the parents had to say. He knew their daughter was dead and her eyes already removed. They would know it soon, too. What Luke really wanted to see was how the boy acted in interviews: how his mind worked and what he would try to find out.
"Mr. and Mrs. York," Christian began, and Luke saw the effort it took for him to raise his eyes to meet theirs. "Do you have the passwords for any social networks your daughter used?"
"Umm, no, I don't believe so," the mother said.
"We can probably get them, though," Mr. York followed up. "Can we get them to you later today?"
"Yes," Christian said, looking back down.
"If you don't mind me asking, why are they important?"
Luke didn't look over to Christian as he spoke, already knowing the answer. "It would have been the easiest way for her abductor to make contact."
And to see her eyes, Luke thought.
Chapter 10
"You think he made contact online?"
Christian, Tommy, and Luke all sat in Luke's office again, the day nearly over. Or, rather, the day over for everyone else—the three of them the only ones left.
Christian stared out the window, tired. "Yes."
"Why?" Luke asked.
"You already know," Christian said. "Why do you ask me questions you know the answers to?" He didn't glance over to Luke, but still saw the look his two partners gave each other.
"I just want to hear your answers."
"It's easier to meet these people online rather than in person; in person creates too many possible ways for him to get caught. Her friends meeting him. Him being seen out with her. The Internet provides anonymity."
"Yeah, but it leaves a trail, too," Tommy said. "Everything you do online is categorized and saved."
"True," Christian said, "but if our guy is clever, which I'm beginning to think he is, there are ways to mask your identity. I bet when we get the passwords, there will be someone new that's contacted her. Most everything about his profile and digital thumbprint will be a lie, but he'll still be the one we want."
Three eyeballs stared back at Bradley. He wore a large coat, a scarf, and a skullcap. He'd been standing in the freezer for a long time, though he had lost track of the time—so he couldn't say exactly how many hours. His cheeks were red and his hands numb, despite keeping them shoved in his pockets. He didn't care.
He couldn't pull himself away from the eyes. He didn't like that he only had three; it should have been an even number. Each eye should have a matching sister. The first didn't, though—all because he wanted to leave a message for the goddamn cops.
Should he throw it out?
"No," Bradley said. "No, that was too much work. Keep it, maybe just move it to the corner."
He nodded. Yes, that would work. Just move it away from these two.
He pulled the two needles out, and held the organ ice cube in his hand. He walked across the garage, knelt to the floor, and pinned the eyeball down low.
"There," he said, nodding again. "That's better."
Finally, Bradley turned and walked out of his garage. He closed the door, locking the deadbolt behind him. He looked at the door for a second and wondered if he should install a padlock. He didn't think Mother could get to it, but you just never knew. That's one of the reasons Dahmer got caught; he'd been so goddamn careless. He kept a vat of bodies inside his apartment. Just right there in the open, the smell of decomposing flesh filling up his kitchen and living room.
Well, you do have a room with frozen eyeballs.
Which was why he needed the padlock. The more security, the better.
Bradley took his skullcap off and went down the hallway. He walked through his house, pulling the scarf from his neck. He took his jacket off as he reached Mother's room.
He knocked on the door.
"What?" she said from inside.
"Are you hungry? I have to go to work soon, so I wanted to make sure you eat before I go."
"I'm not hungry," Mother said.
Bradley turned from the door and went to the kitchen. He pulled out bread, mayonnaise, and some sliced turkey from the refrigerator. It took him a few minutes because his hands were so cold, but he made the sandwich and put it on a plate. Bradley brought it back to her room and set it down in front of her door.
"Mother, there's a sandwich here for you if you get hungry. I'll be back this evening."
"Why are you spending so much time in the garage?" she asked.
Bradley swallowed and his left hand started shaking. He didn't notice either of the movements.
"I'm remodeling it," he said.
"Why?"
"I want it to look nice."
A pause.
"Are you doing something you shouldn't?"
Again, Bradley swallowed, unable to help himself. "No.
" He stood, waiting to see if she would continue pestering him. Mother said nothing, though, and finally, Bradley turned and left the house. His left hand was still shaking and his mind was blank with fury.
She was always pestering him.
Charles Ranger had spent the last twenty-four hours making up his mind. He knew he couldn't continue living like this; it was already bad enough that he couldn't speak, but to have to listen to that psychopath continually talking—it was unbearable. He couldn't go on like this.
His children were coming to visit him today, and he’d decided to tell them everything; or rather, write it all down and let them read it. He spent the last few hours of night scribbling the truth down on his tablet.
At six in the morning, he finally fell asleep, making sure to turn the tablet off and put it away before he did. Opening his eyes to Bradley looking down at his note wouldn't be in Charles's best interest, that was certain.
"Wake up, sleepy head."
Charles heard the voice, but it felt far away.
Something grabbed his shoulder roughly, and that wasn't far away. His eyes flashed open, and Bradley stood above him.
"You overslept," the psychopath said.
Charles blinked a few times, his mind tried to catch up with his surroundings.
"Your kids will be here in an hour. You need to get ready."
Bradley didn't look well, and that was saying something, because the psycho never looked exactly great. Today, though, was different. Had he been crying? His eyes were red and somewhat puffy.
Something's wrong, Charles thought. Does he know? Did he see my tablet?
Charles managed to keep his eyes from glancing to his nightstand, where he kept the digital device. He could see it peripherally, though, and the drawer wasn't open. If Bradley had seen what he wrote, he put it away again.
Don't be a damned fool. The psychopath wasn't crying because you wrote a note to your kids, telling them what he's doing. If he read it, you'd already be dead.
"I haven't had a good morning," Bradley said.
He sounds like a robot, Charles thought. As if he's never felt an emotion his entire life.
Charles knew that wasn't true, though. He'd heard Bradley get really animated whenever he discussed his little eyeball project.
Bradley didn't look down as he continued speaking. He stared straight forward at Charles's headboard. "I know your kids are coming today, and if you try to tell them what I've been telling you, I'll kill them. I've seen them before, and their eyes aren't that pretty, so they won't make it on my wall. You know what I've been doing with the last body, Charlie? I'm eating it. I'm feeding it to Mother, too. You see, if there's no body, there's no crime. I'm making broth with the bones. There's a lot of healthy stuff in broth, collagen and stuff like that. I'll eat your kids, Charlie, if you tell them, and I promise, it's not like those Hannibal Lecter books. It's a brutal effort, cutting up a body, getting through gristle and bone." Bradley looked down, his eyes clearing some as if he was finally realizing he'd been speaking. "You don't want that to happen, do you?"
Maybe Bradley went too far with Charlie this morning. He wasn't sure and truly couldn't remember everything he'd said. When Mother made him mad, he lost himself in his thoughts for some time after. That was why he had punished her (though not as bad as Father's punishment), didn't she see that? Bradley couldn't afford to get lost right now; if he did, he'd surely end up caught, and when Bradley decided to start his wall, it was under the assumption he'd never be caught.
He wouldn't end up like Dahmer, stabbed to death in jail.
Dahmer was a fucking faggot, and an idiot to boot. Bradley was nothing like that. He wasn't a faggot and he wasn't an idiot.
Bradley kept an eye on Charlie while his kids visited, though he couldn't watch the old man as closely as he wanted. He still had work to do. From what he saw, though, nothing out of the ordinary came up. Charlie might have been a bit too downtrodden, but that probably had to do with what Bradley said. He'd speak to Charlie about it tomorrow; Charlie just needed to know that he had to keep his mouth shut, and as long as he did that, he had nothing to worry about. At least not yet.
Bradley went through the rest of the day with as much gusto as a slug crossing a hot summer road. He hated being here because he had things to do at home. Teaching Mother a lesson, not the least of them. Finally, though, the day ended and he found himself standing outside Mother's bedroom door.
The sandwich hadn't been touched.
"Why didn't you eat?" he said, without bothering to knock or announce himself.
"I told you I wasn't hungry."
"What you said this morning, Mother. That wasn't polite." His voice shook, as did his left hand. He heard his voice and hated it. He sounded weak.
"What are you doing in that garage, Bradley?" she said.
"It's none of your goddamn business, Mother."
"This is still my house. Everything that goes on inside it is my business."
Bradley opened the bedroom door and crossed the threshold from the hallway to the room. The smell came first, as it always did. The room smelled dead, like the inside of a coffin—unmoved air and flesh long ago decayed.
The room was dark, the only light stemming from a lamp in the back corner of the room.
Mother lay in her bed. The television was turned off.
"What do you want?" she asked. "I didn't say you could come in."
Bradley walked across the room, standing next to her bed. Her head didn't turn to look at him.
"I've told you not to talk to me like that. I'm not a child anymore."
"No, you're definitely not a child." She still spoke, but her voice was subdued and Bradley enjoyed that. It meant she was learning. It meant she knew who was in charge, even if she didn't want it to be so.
"You're going to respect me, Mother. Father is gone and he's not coming back. You're going to respect me or else I'll teach you respect. You understand?"
Mother turned her head so that she looked toward the window. She said nothing.
Bradley looked down at her frail body. She needed to eat. "You're not going on some kind of hunger strike. If I have to force-feed you, I will."
"I'll eat when I'm hungry."
Bradley felt blood rise to his face again, anger wanting to overflow onto Mother and her goddamn bed. Her thin legs stuck out to him, the lamp's light somehow making the scars rise almost incandescently from her skin. They had healed, but they wouldn't always. One day, the cuts would be too much for her old body to handle and she'd die.
"You should be careful, Mother," Bradley said. "You're not as young as you used to be."
He stared at her for a minute or so, though she didn't look back over at him. Maybe she didn't even know he was looking at her. She kept silent, though, and that was most important.
Bradley left the room, closing the door behind him. He looked down at the sandwich, the meat inside it having grayed some since he pulled it from the refrigerator.
A perfectly good waste of meat.
He kicked it across the hallway, the bread flying off, and the thick piece of meat landing on the wall, making a wet splat sound against it.
Bradley watched it fall to the ground before walking off down the hallway to his room.
Chapter 11
"That's him," Christian said.
"You're sure?" Tommy said from behind him. Luke stood to Tommy's right and Christian sat in the chair, staring at the laptop.
"Yes. He's the one we want."
Tommy looked at the picture on the screen. The guy was good looking. Young, at least compared to Tommy—more and more he felt everyone was young compared to himself. Forty-five certainly wasn't as glamorous as he wanted it to be. The man he looked at was probably in his mid twenties, which fit the profile.
"That's not actually him, though, right?" Tommy said.
"No. It's a fake photo." Christian turned around and looked at Tommy, for once no shyness in his face. Instead, Tommy saw an intense conce
ntration.
This is the real him, Tommy thought. This is the part of him that feels alive. The other person is just a shadow of this one, just a shell to hide this real one inside.
"Do we have computer scientists?" Christian asked.
Luke chuckled from the right.
"We're the FBI. Of course we have computer scientists," Tommy said.
"We need everything we can get from this profile and his. IP addresses, reroutes, associated names, others contacted. Tell them to get everything."
"Alright."
"I'm hungry," the kid said. He stood up and started walking down the hallway without so much as a glance at the two of them. Tommy stared without moving until Christian finally stopped about ten feet away. "Is there some place to eat around here?"
Tommy looked over at Luke. If Christian's face had showed intense interest a moment ago, Luke's held mild approval.
"Sure," Luke said. "There's a sandwich shop around the corner. Mind if we join you?"
Tommy watched Christian's eyes widen, as if the idea had never occurred to him—he had been completely set on eating alone.
"Yeah, that's fine," he said a second later.
Tommy shook his head, a smile on his own face. He had two very weird partners, and there was no way he'd ever understand everything they did.
Two footlong subs sat in front of Christian. He pulled one from the wrapping and started munching on the first section. He always asked that they cut his subs into quarters. He never understood why they only did halves. If the knife was already next to the bread, why not just make two more cuts? It certainly made holding the sandwich easier.
"You're going to eat all of that?" Tommy said.
Christian looked up from his sandwich. He hadn't quite forgotten that two other people sat with him, only his mind wasn't concerned with them.
"What do you mean?"