The Killing House mf-1

by Chris Mooney

  Fletcher found out on the third video, the one showing the fat man rushing into the treatment room and apprehending Dr Sin at gunpoint.

  The man had been in some sort of accident; what remained was a face drawn by Picasso — a jagged, scarred mess of severed nerves that resulted in a sagging eyelid and a permanent crooked grin. He bound Dr Sin with zip ties and carried Nathan Santiago out of the room.

  The final video showed Santiago being loaded into the backseat of the Lincoln. The disfigured man made a return trip inside the house. He came back with Dr Sin and placed her gently inside the trunk — gently because the man knew the woman was a doctor, and he needed her to remove Nathan Santiago’s organs. If that was true — and Fletcher suspected it was — the disfigured man and his partner, the woman in the fur coat, were holed up somewhere.

  Fletcher called M.

  ‘Meet me in the hotel parking lot,’ he said, and hung up.

  Here she came. She did not run, even though she shivered in the cold wind. He found the car controls and turned up the heat.

  M slid into the roomy passenger’s seat and kept her body pressed close to the door. Her eyes were cold, but not from anger.

  He didn’t drive away. He turned slightly in his seat and said, ‘You left your sidearm on the bed, but not your knife.’

  ‘What knife?’

  ‘The one you carry with you at all times. The one tucked underneath your left-hand sleeve.’

  She tilted her head. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The fine scars on your palms and wrists. Give it to me handle-first please.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want to help Karim?’

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘Give me the knife and you’ll find out.’

  M stared at him for a moment before dipping a hand inside her sleeve. She displayed no emotion at being found out.

  She came back with a Smith amp; Wesson Special Operation Bowie knife with a black aluminium handle and a seven-inch black stainless-steel blade. She placed it handle-first against his waiting palm.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How long have you been practising Bowie knife-fighting?’

  ‘Only a few months.’

  ‘Please lean forward and place your hands on the dashboard.’

  ‘I’m not wired.’

  ‘I need to be sure.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you can’t help Karim. Goodbye.’

  Fletcher opened his door, about to step out, when she said, ‘Wait.’

  He shut the door. M did not lean forward. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and dumped it on the floor. Then she slipped out of her sweatpants. Every inch of her body was exposed. No wire, just smooth skin and a slight puckered scar on her left shoulder.

  She showed no sense of self-consciousness at being nude. Nor should she. M had worked exceptionally hard on her body.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Very much so,’ Fletcher said. ‘My apologies for having put you through this. You’ll understand my reasons momentarily.’

  67

  Fletcher divided his attention between the road and the SUV’s rearview and side mirrors. While he felt confident that they were safe, he needed to remain vigilant.

  M had finished getting dressed. She sat with her palms flat on her thighs and stared out of the front window with that impenetrable glare that hid her emotions. Her mind, he knew, was very active.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Fletcher didn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t like surprises,’ she said.

  Of course you don’t, Fletcher thought.

  He needed to address it. Now.

  ‘Your rating,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  She cocked her head towards him.

  ‘During CARS testing, you were given a rating,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  Her face was a blank mask, but he’d caught the fury building in her eyes at having been found out.

  ‘Childhood Autism Rating Scale,’ he said. ‘The diagnostic tool measures — ’

  ‘I bloody well know what it is. What did Karim tell you?’

  ‘He didn’t. He would never betray a confidence.’

  That seemed to relax something inside her. ‘Then who told you?’

  ‘You did.’

  Fletcher didn’t elaborate, wanting her to ask the questions so she could control the flow of information, process and store it. The autistic mind demanded order.

  ‘How did — what gave me away?’

  ‘The way you kept your distance on the plane when you shook my hand,’ Fletcher said. ‘The way you’re keeping your distance from me right now by keeping your body pressed up against the car door. Like all autistics, you’re aggressively protective of your personal space. And you abhor physical contact — you undressed rather than allowing me to touch you.’

  ‘I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know.’

  ‘When I called and told you about what happened to Karim, your tone was calm and neutral in the way all autistics discuss emotional matters.’

  ‘I was focused on helping him — on helping you.’

  ‘You have a difficult time maintaining eye contact even though I’m wearing sunglasses. You walked to the car instead of running because you’re in a new setting and need time to absorb it so you don’t overload your senses. And there’s your insistence on knowing our exact destination.’

  M was no longer looking at him. She was staring out of the window, her gaze darting over the houses and street signs.

  ‘There’s no reason to feel ashamed,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not. Are you ashamed of the way your eyes look, Mr Fletcher?’

  ‘I wish they were different. It would make my life much simpler, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.’

  ‘I don’t wish to change what I am, and I’m certainly not ashamed of who I am.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you should be. You’re quite adept at handling emotional regulation. I suspect people don’t know you’re autistic.’

  ‘They don’t. People think I’m cold. Different. I choose to be private. And, regardless of what my tone says, I do care about Karim.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt, Miss White.’

  ‘Don’t call me that. I’m not anyone’s “miss”.’

  ‘What’s Karim’s condition?’

  ‘He’s in a coma,’ she said. ‘His personal physician is there, in New Jersey. He wants to move Karim to Manhattan.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sometime later today. Possibly tomorrow. I have no intention of turning you in, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘I would hope so.’

  M kept studying the landscape, memorizing signs and routes. She kept squeezing her knees. A coping mechanism, Fletcher thought.

  ‘Forty-six point eight,’ she said. ‘That’s where I fell on the CARS scale.’

  Her words carried a sharp edge, as though she’d never been able to dislodge herself completely from the diagnosis.

  ‘The number is complete bollocks,’ she said. ‘It says I’m incapable of functioning in social situations, incapable of forming or maintaining relationships. I have friends, I’ve had a number of satisfying sexual relationships, and I don’t shy away from social situations. I can hold a conversation. I’ve learned through reading textbooks and from experience to pick up nuances in speech and body language so I can mirror social situations. And I can speak about myself when I feel it’s appropriate, like now.’

  But not without great effort, Fletcher thought. Even equipped with all her textbook knowledge and hard-learned experiences, each day she had to fight her way through an alien land plagued with people autistics called neurotypicals. He suspected she lived in a constant state of exhaustion.

  Clearly M fell into the high-functioning category on the autism spectrum. Clearly what saved her from a life of complete isolation and loneliness was a high intelligen
ce quotient.

  ‘I’ve answered your questions, and now I want you to answer mine,’ she said. ‘Is it true what they’re saying about you on the telly and in the papers?’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘They said you killed three agents sent to arrest you.’

  ‘They weren’t federal agents.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘CIA operatives skilled in wet work. They were dispatched to make me disappear.’

  M turned in her seat and gave him her full attention. She was watching his face very closely now.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything.’

  68

  The unique psychodynamics and wiring of the autistic brain demanded structure and clarity. Fletcher took a moment to gather his thoughts.

  ‘When the Behavioral Analysis Unit was first established,’ he said, ‘we were working with a number of psychiatrists who specialized in violent crime. They were assisting us in developing our profiling methods. While interviewing incarcerated serial killers and mass murderers, we learned that, in addition to being overwhelmingly male, they all exhibited certain key traits during childhood.’

  ‘Broken and abusive homes, bedwetting, torturing animals, etcetera.’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘A good majority also had neurological impairments from past trauma. It changed their brain chemistry. In a few rare cases, their brains had been formed that way in the womb.

  ‘While working as a profiler, I discovered that Behavioral Analysis was engaged in classified research, something called the BMP — the Behavioral Modification Project. Three psychiatric hospitals were involved. They sifted through lists of juvenile offenders in their respective cities and towns and with the help of Behavioral Analysis identified those young males who exhibited traits associated with serial killers and mass murderers. The stated goal was to remove these potential killers from their environment and give them access to therapy and medical resources, education and, later, employment opportunities that were unavailable in their former existence — all of it funded by federal dollars.

  ‘In reality, BMP was using these young men to test a vaccine being developed to eliminate, or at least curb, male violence and aggression.’

  ‘The profiling unit was involved in human medical testing?’ M asked.

  ‘Not the entire unit. The director of Behavioral Analysis at the time was involved, along with three other agents. There were also a number of high-ranking agents within the Bureau who were profiting from the testing.’

  ‘Profiting?’

  ‘A vaccine that would curb or eliminate violence would be worth billions of dollars to the drug company that could successfully manufacture it. They paid handsome sums of money to the three hospitals providing the patients.’

  ‘You mean guinea pigs,’ she said.

  Fletcher nodded. ‘The agents involved doctored paperwork so the patients would never be found. They were generously compensated.’

  ‘Were you involved?’

  ‘No. I discovered what was going on by accident.’

  ‘Did this vaccine work?’

  ‘No. All the patients died.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Dozens, possibly hundreds,’ he said. ‘I was never able to find out an exact number.’

  M digested this for a moment.

  Then she said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘The test subjects were carefully selected so their deaths wouldn’t raise any questions. The paperwork was doctored in advance, and after a patient died his medical file was transferred from one facility to another. With no one looking out for these young men, these mass murders were washed away in tides of bureaucratic paperwork.’

  ‘And the bodies?’

  ‘We never found them.’

  ‘We? Another agent was helping you?’

  ‘No,’ Fletcher said. ‘Karim was helping me. I helped him on a… private matter a long time ago. He said if I ever needed a favour, I should call him. After the three psychiatric hospitals associated with the BMP shut down, I asked Karim to discreetly search for evidence. Two of the hospitals were set in private, wooded areas. He hired forensic archaeologists to study the topography for burial sites. Nothing came of it.’

  ‘What about the parents? Surely one of them must have — ’

  ‘Most of the patients were orphans. Wards of the state. Of those who did have a parent, the mother or father wanted nothing more to do with their troublesome son. No one wanted these young men, and no one came looking for them after they died.’

  ‘That’s…’ She didn’t finish the thought.

  ‘Barbaric?’ Fletcher prompted.

  ‘I was going to say ghoulish.’

  ‘History gives us examples at every turn,’ Fletcher said. ‘Let’s take your British government — their child-migration scheme. The British wanted to dispose of those members of society who would be a drain on their financial system, so they rounded up thousands of poor and orphaned children and shipped them off to Catholic monasteries in Australia. The Aussies received free slave labour, and the orphans were treated to decades of sexual abuse, beatings and death.’

  ‘That happened in the early 1800s.’

  ‘And continued well into the mid-1800s, when the Children’s Friend Society continued to send vagrant children to Australia and Canada,’ Fletcher said. ‘The truth wasn’t made public until 1987, when a British author and social worker took it upon herself to launch an independent investigation. And then we have the esteemed myrmecologist, psychiatrist and eugenicist, Auguste Forel, who, in the thirties, convinced Swiss officials to adopt a racial-hygiene law. Over sixty thousand women were sterilized. Hitler later adopted a similar eugenic law, and we know what occurred there. Here in America we have the Tuskegee syphilis experiment in the thirties, where the United States Public Health Service infected nearly four hundred impoverished black sharecroppers with syphilis. Voltaire said, “History doesn’t repeat itself — man does.” ’

  ‘Voltaire?’

  Fletcher sighed. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘The British government hid their sins, just as the American government used its vast influence and powers to hide the Behavioral Modification Project. I was in the process of collecting the necessary information to expose what was happening when the three aforementioned CIA operatives were dispatched to my home.’

  ‘And you killed them.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And the information you collected?’

  ‘I stored everything inside a safety-deposit box,’ Fletcher said. ‘The FBI reached it before I could.’

  ‘And then you were on the run.’

  Fletcher nodded.

  ‘You’re a fugitive because you know about the FBI’s involvement in medical testing.’

  Fletcher nodded again.

  ‘And the Behavioral Modification Project? What happened to it?’

  ‘Shut down,’ Fletcher said. ‘All the documentation and evidence was destroyed. It doesn’t exist.’

  M digested this silently.

  ‘Borgia is calling you a serial killer.’

  ‘I’ve killed some men,’ he said. ‘But I’m hardly a serial killer.’

  ‘Did they have it coming?’

  We all have it coming, one way or another, Fletcher thought. ‘They were guilty of their crimes,’ he said. ‘I don’t regret what I did. Do you have any more questions?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘What information have you uncovered on Borgia?’

  ‘Just surface stuff. He’s single — he’s never been married. Nothing jumps out on his credit-card statements. I downloaded his phone records — that took some doing — but I haven’t had a chance to delve through everything. I need more time. I believe you, by the way. What you told me.’

  ‘I’ll never lie to you, M.’

  ‘Machine,’ she said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘When I was a girl, Karim would periodically check in with the school staff to enquire about my progress. D
r Franklin said, “She never stops moving, that one. Always on the go, like a little machine.” That’s why Karim calls me M. It’s short for “Machine”. I want to know where we’re going.’

  ‘To get my car. The Jaguar.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked in a casual tone.

  ‘Locked inside the trunk is a netbook computer containing information I downloaded from Corrigan’s cell phone — call history, contacts, everything.’

  ‘Corrigan as in Dr Gary Corrigan, the former surgeon.’

  ‘Karim told you?’

  A curt nod, and she added, ‘I told you I was helping him on this project.’

  ‘Corrigan performed the organ removal in another location. There could be something on his phone that might allow me to find out where Dr Sin and Nathan Santiago were taken.’

  ‘What kind of cell did he have?’

  ‘An iPhone.’

  ‘Then that will make it easier. All iPhones contain a GPS function — the maps icon. The program is always running in the background, recording where the phone travels. We can download that data and analyse it.’

  ‘You said Karim was going to be moved to Manhattan either later today or early tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s what I was told.’

  ‘I want you to call the head of his security detail.’

  ‘Bar Lev,’ she said.

  ‘Call and tell him to speak to Karim’s physician, ask if the transfer can be postponed until tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Let me tell you what I have in mind,’ Fletcher said.

  69

  It was a widely known fact within the Bureau that the FBI’s New York field office was considered to be the best in the country. Size was a factor: it boasted the largest office and the greatest number of personnel. Since it was located in the most volatile city in terms of organized crime — and now, because of 9/11, the most volatile in terms of terrorist activities — the Manhattan field office hired only the brightest technical and forensic minds. Their Evidence Response Team was first rate. Consisting of top supervisory special agents, mechanical engineers, computer and program analysts, even forensic K9 specialists, Manhattan ERT could work any major investigation — had, in fact, worked several terrorist cases. Because of the quality of personnel, these terrorist plots had never materialized.