by Ty Patterson
‘Spotted anyone on the shades? Told the guys?’
‘Nope and heck no. They’d go over the top. Probably have a tank or a SWAT team following us. It might be nothing, or maybe just an admirer.’
A couple of hours later they got a call from Broker and approached a café on Lexington Avenue. As they neared, they spotted Broker sitting outside a glass in front of him, talking to a white-haired man, a thin man who stooped slightly. He wore a light colored, full-sleeved shirt, over tan slacks.
As they neared the two, they saw his face was heavily tattooed. Teardrops ran down the left of his face, engraving peeked out from beneath his sleeves.
Broker spotted them and waved them over.
He grinned at them, looked over their heads and addressed the city. ‘We might have something.’
Zeb materialized and Broker bowed elaborately at his conjuring trick.
Meghan explained to the white haired man. ‘They put on this act to impress strangers. Ignore them and they’ll behave.’
‘Carl Sandoval.’ Broker introduced the stranger once they had grabbed their drinks and were seated around the small table. ‘Carl killed seven people in the late seventies in New York, strangled them, gained notoriety as the Shoelace killer.’
He paused as the twins spluttered over their coffee and rushed to find tissues.
When calm had settled, he continued. ‘Carl was caught in the act after the cops performed a sting operation that sucked him in. He was imprisoned for twenty years, and when inside, in Attica, he found God. Attica, a supermax prison in the state, has inmates of all kinds, serial killers, psychopaths, child molesters, you name it, and the prison has them.’
‘Sandoval turned informer when in prison.’
Broker paused dramatically and on cue, the twins’ eyes turned on the white haired man.
‘Regret. Repentance. Whatever you want to call it. I couldn’t undo the past. But I could do this.’ Sandoval’s voice was thin and reedy, a brief smile twitched his lips as he returned their gazes.
The smile disappeared when Zeb’s flat eyes looked him over, pierced through him and examined him. Zeb nodded finally and he resumed. ‘The inmates didn’t know I had turned, they trusted me, respected me. I was a serial killer, a man to be feared. I had the ink.’
‘I sent anonymous messages to the cops about past crimes inmates told me. One serial killer, he preyed on young men. He drugged them in bars, sodomized them and then killed them. I befriended him; we bragged about our kills. He fed on my admiration and told me how he found his victims.’
‘On the internet. His victims were all young; under twenty-five and he stalked them on the internet first. Found where they went to drink, followed them, and then drugged them at the right opportunity.’
He narrated easily, staring at the distance, and if he was aware of the horror on the sisters’ faces, he ignored it.
‘This killer died in prison. A bathroom scuffle with another inmate, a shiv made its way into his heart.’
‘He died, but not before he told me of an internet forum where other killers hung out. A forum where evil could be discussed freely. A place where evil was even mentored.’
The silence was thick, no one moved, the city crept closer to overhear.
‘I joined the forum when I came out. I had to pass several tests. Prove who I was. Show images of my kills, describe them.’
He paused again. Looked at Zeb.
‘I think I know who your killer is.’
Chapter 11
‘Why’re you here?’ You should be telling this to the cops.’ Zeb’s eyes didn’t leave Sandoval’s face.
The brief smile returned to the ex-con’s face. ‘They’d put me back in just for going on that forum. They’d believe I started killing again. I saw you guys on television, called that hotline number and left a message just for you. I mentioned the name of the forum. Your partner reached out to me days later.’
He saw the look in Zeb’s eyes and smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. They remained sad. And empty.
‘This is why I didn’t approach the cops. I thought you’d believe me.’
Zeb felt Broker’s gaze on him. I’ve checked him out.
Sandoval resumed when Zeb lapsed into silence. ‘One of the tests I had to pass to enter that forum was to reveal my identity. I had to go on a webcam at a specific time, describe my killings, and satisfy those guys. I’m the only one whose identity is known. All the rest,’ he shook his head. ‘I dunno. I haven’t figured out how they gain access. Maybe referrals.’
The server approached, hovered around them and disappeared when Zeb removed his shades and looked at him.
‘Serial killers aren’t that common you know. Most of the guys on that forum aren’t killers. They have violent thoughts and come onto the forum to vent. The real killers rarely speak. So what you get on the forum is a lot of discussion on what some guy might do, how he might do it. Stuff on how to evade cops. I passed on those bits to the boys in blue. I lurked. Sometimes someone asked me about my kills. I told them. Someone asked me what I was planning to do. I told them I had hate in my heart. It had to find an outlet. I was looking. That satisfied them.’
‘Five, six months back, one of the guys messaged me. He rants a lot in the forum. Nothing specific. The usual rants about authority and The Man. His rants are always filled with violence. This guy asked me about my kills in a lot of detail. How I erased evidence, how I cleaned up. I told him. It all came out in the trial in any case.’
‘He went away and I paid no mind. He returned a few weeks later, asked me if I had considered another weapon. I said no. He said he was. His first kill was with a shoelace, but it didn’t fill him enough.’
Passersby paused to look at them, moved on when shades swung their way. New Yorkers saw a lot, but a heavily inked man in an upscale café with a couple of stunning women with him, still drew attention.
‘I asked him what he meant. He described the feeling. The words he used.’ Sandoval swallowed. ‘I recognized that feeling.’
‘I asked him when he had killed. It was a direct question, I didn’t expect an answer. He replied, though. He mentioned a week back. Remember, this was about five and a half months back.’
‘I said nothing to him. He said the urge was growing again, asked me about the frequency of my kills. I evaded his questions, but he pestered me. I logged off, and he emailed me.’
‘I went to the library, checked out back issues of newspapers and found that a homeless man was found dead in Brooklyn. Murdered by strangulation.’
Zeb saw the slight tremble in his hands, ignored it. ‘You went to the cops?’
Sandoval smiled bitterly. ‘Yeah. Someone took my details, listened politely and thanked me. I suspect they dug into my past and my statement immediately lost weight. In fact they probably suspected me. I did see a cruiser following me for a couple of days afterwards. My pastor told me there’d been inquiries about me. The cruiser stopped when the cops realized I had an alibi.’
‘A couple of weeks later, I went to the forum again and saw three messages from this guy. The first one was a polite, where are you. The second one was more demanding. The third, even more so. He came online in an hour’s time. He’s always online in the evening, right through to the night. He was ecstatic. He said his second kill was such a high. He went on about the feeling for a long time. He mentioned a wooden instrument. He was less forthcoming with specific details this time, so I asked him when he’d killed. He stopped immediately and questioned me back. Why did I want to know? I said I wanted to relate the timing to my frequency. That seemed to satisfy him and he told me.’
‘All this in a public forum?’ Beth demanded.
‘No, ma’am.’ Sandoval’s manner was courteous when addressing the women. Old worldly. ‘The messaging happens privately. One member can talk to another, when they’re online. What gets discussed publicly is a lot of stuff about how to evade cops.’
It’s not an act. He genuinely r
espects women.
Zeb moved a shoulder in his direction. Go on.
‘I checked out the timing of the kill. There was one reported in the media that matched. The way he was killed was similar to what this guy said. I dropped a note to the cops. Nothing happened. This guy was still online, though less so than previously. He was gaining in confidence. Now, he was talking about making the high last, killing more often. I asked him how he found his victims, he clammed up.’
‘I stopped going to the forum for a while. Visited it a few weeks back. He was there. He said he was waiting for me. Said the killing had gripped him. Now there was something else. He was haunted by eyes. Green eyes.’
‘I asked him what he meant. He disappeared. By that time I’d seen the press conference that introduced you guys. I called the hotline, jumped through several hoops and here I am.’
Meghan was curious. ‘How come the cops don’t close down this forum?’
‘This forum exists on the dark net, ma’am. The network is on anonymous servers and isn’t visible when you do your normal searches. The forum goes down frequently. I know that sites have been taken down by the FBI, by Interpol. But these sites always pop up in a different guise. It’s like cyber whack-a-mole.’
Zeb idly stirred his drink. ‘He’s right. We’ve helped the FBI take down some of those sites, but they never go out of existence for good.’ He turned to Sandoval. ‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I took to drawing when I was in prison, and I now sell my drawings in churches, in squares. It pays some of my bills. I also work as a janitor in my church.’ He mentioned a well-known church in Brooklyn. ‘I don’t have many needs. In my free time, I help out at food kitchens.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the cops when you were inside, with a deal in exchange for your juice? Your sentence could’ve been commuted; maybe you’d have gotten witness protection.’
Sandoval didn’t reply for a long while, when he did, his eyes had the answer. ‘That would’ve been the easy way out.’
Zeb read his gaze and understood. He knew a thing or two about penance.
‘You recollect anything else?’
The ex-con shook his head. ‘But this might help you.’ He produced a couple of sheets of paper. ‘I saved the last few chats with him and printed them off.’
Zeb glanced at the pages and his gaze stopped at the forum name the killer used.
Batter80.
‘The cops have these sheets?’
Sandoval shook his head.
Zeb read his eyes. ‘You got a plan?’
The ex-killer nodded.
‘You’re willing to go that far? It’s dangerous.’
Sandoval looked away from the flat gaze that pierced him. He looked at the world going about its business outside their bubble. Office workers striding, mommies pushing their toddlers, young men trying to look cool in their hipsters.
‘I need to do this.’
‘That’s the craziest shit I’ve heard,’ Meghan exclaimed and put down the papers in disgust. They were still at the café though Sandoval had left an hour back.
‘His story? Or these?’ Beth pointed at the sheets.
‘Both. How in the heck can we believe someone who’s killed seven people? This might be a trap.’
‘His story checks out. His parole officer, the pastor, the cops, several inmates, the warden at Attica at that time ... they all back his story. That site also exists.’ Broker sighed. ‘Unfortunately it’s not one I can crack. It’s not just that it’s buried deep, but that the access protocol makes hacking impossible. New joiners are required to show themselves.’
Beth said slowly, ‘That’s why Zeb asked him how far he would go.’
Zeb waved the server across, ordered a round of drinks for them. ‘It won’t be easy. We are dealing with an unknown quantity. I want Sandoval to engage with him, draw him out and set up a meet.’
‘And when he does, he walks into our trap.’
Zeb swirled his glass, watched the thick coffee turn, form a small whirlpool. ‘Or, Sandoval might just have turned himself.’
‘It could happen. Sandoval could relapse.’ Melanie Krause said uncertainly. ‘These are unknown waters. Using an ex-serial killer to trap an active one – I’ve never heard of that one before.’
‘This is madness,’ Pizaka exclaimed.
Zeb and Broker had requested the meeting with the cops. ‘Not to seek their permission, but to tell them,’ he said drily to Broker.
Broker grinned. ‘Pizaka’ll blow a fuse. I so want to see that.’
Pizaka had. He’d ranted and raved, had called in Melanie Krause to give her views, and when those weren’t helpful, he’d exploded.
‘This isn’t one of your stupid door-busting missions where you go in guns ablazing. We have a killer loose and what you’re proposing might just set loose another.’
He sat down when he looked Zeb’s way. There was no emotion on Zeb’s face, not a muscle had twitched, but something in the way he sat, looked at Pizaka, made the cop draw his breath and take a seat.
Zeb broke the uncomfortable silence. Uncomfortable for the cops. ‘You guys didn’t follow up on Sandoval’s calls. Even suspected him of being the killer. If you had, maybe you could’ve stopped this four or five victims back.’
Pizaka’s shoulders lowered under the weight of his words, his face turned red, but he held his words.
‘You’re forgetting that Sandoval suggested this. He knows the risks. He knows that we know he might relapse. We, on the other hand, don’t have many clues to work on. We have a very rough description. We’ve got a list, but you know tracking down all those guys will take time.’
Time. Two or three more bodies in that time.
He didn’t have to say it. It was loud and clear in the silence.
‘And what if the killer spots the trap?’
‘What’ll happen? He’ll either go quiet and stop killing, or go after Sandoval. The first buys us more time, the second – we’ll keep an eye on Sandoval.’
‘And if we end up with two killers on the streets?’ Pizaka growled.
Chang murmured for the first time. ‘It’s on their head. That’s why we took them on as consultants.’
Sandoval paced his tiny room impatiently, waiting for Zeb’s call. It wasn’t more than twelve feet in length, eight feet wide, had a small window that looked out at the grey walls of the neighboring apartment block. The walls were white, he liked white, it soothed him, a small cot occupied one end, a TV and a computer jostled for space in a corner. A large cross hung on one of the white walls, the other wall had framed paintings, Sandoval’s creations, arranged on it.
He looked at his watch, his phone, no call. He calmed his thumping heart, it didn’t listen.
He gave up, strode to his computer and logged on.
You there?
It was dusk and the faint noises of the city seeped in through his apartment block in Brooklyn.
Dusk became night, no call came from Zeb. Sandoval went to his tiny kitchen, heated a bowl of noodles, went back to the living room, took up a canvas and started drawing.
Fifteen minutes later he threw away the canvas in frustration.
When he turned his head around, the message was flashing.
Wassup, bro?
Those eyes still troubling you?
Why?
I went through that shit. In my case it was a voice, my bastard dad’s voice. It played in my mind. I had to silence it.
You killed more when the voice came?
The voice was always there. But it grew louder as time went on, and then I killed more often. How’s it for you?
I’ve got these green eyes following me. Two pairs. I want to shut them. The thing in me says, don’t. It’s tearing me apart.
The killer disappeared.
Sandoval stared at the screen waiting for a message and got nothing, but the cursor mocking at him.
He waited an hour and when the killer didn’t return, he scraped back his
chair and stood wearily. His phone blinked. A message. It was from Zeb.
Wait. Will tell you when.
He tossed the phone back on his bed. It was done.
The killer nibbled at a burger, thinking furiously. That was uncharacteristic of Sandoval. He raged at himself for letting slip about the eyes.
I warned you.
Shut up.
Why did Sandoval contact him? He sat undecided for a moment, drew the computer to him and clicked on another member.
Heard anything from SLK? SLK was the forum name for Sandoval, Shoelace Killer.
Nope, but then I wasn’t looking for him. Why?
Maybe nothing, but something weird happened.
Sandoval was distracted the next day as he went about cleaning the church. He checked his phone several times and when no message came from Zeb, sent one.
Waiting.
An hour later the reply came.
Wait.
He went in the afternoon to a street fair that was running on Sunset Park, laid out his paintings and drawings and when evening set, collected his earnings and made his way home.
He climbed the five floors to his hallway, dark and silent. He stood for a moment, darkness had been a part of his life for so long, before turning opening his door.
He laid out his earnings on his bed, went to the bathroom, washed himself, returned and stopped.
‘Hello Carl.’
The killer stood silently inside the open doorway, a bat hanging down by his side.
He kicked the door shut, stepped inside, kicked the door shut and looked around.
‘Painter, huh? God? You got religion, Carl? After all those killings?’
The killer’s voice was scratchy as if conversation was new to him. His eyes swung to Sandoval’s, two dark tunnels at the end of which there was no light.
‘No questions? No, how did you find me?’ The killer mocked.
Sandoval shuffled backward slowly until the back of his legs touched his cot.
The killer continued when Sandoval didn’t reply. ‘You shouldn’t have contacted me. You’ve never done that before. It set off alarm bells. I asked a few people. They all believed you. They all said you’d gone back to killing. But I’ve stayed ahead this long because of my instincts. I looked you up on the net, found nothing.’