by Mike Omer
RollingPunches appeared twenty-three times in the subreddit, mostly in the comments. He seemed to be one of the more rational, analytical Redditors, and a large number of his comments were dedicated to discounting various suspects, for good reasons. He was very enthusiastic with the Redditors who drove to Glenmore Park to take pictures. Had he decided to join the troops? His last post was over a day before his estimated time of death.
Two of his comments were aimed at a different subreddit called ProtectOurChildren. They also appeared in various social networks with the hashtag #ProtectOurChildren. Mitchell skimmed the premise. They claimed the Lisman kidnapping would have been avoided if the justice system dealt more harshly with sexual offenders. Chemical castration was lauded as the number one method of dealing with this problem, as well as harsher punishments for any sexual offense. That the Lisman case was almost certainly not related to sexual offenders mattered not at all to the various memes and video clips that began cropping up everywhere.
Once Mitchell’s attention was distracted by this group, it was impossible not to notice the others. A different group linked the case to funding of law enforcement agencies. They claimed that the police were focused on revenue from fines instead of crime prevention.
A third group linked it to illegal immigrants.
Gun control, citizen privacy, the targeting of various ethnic groups—Abigail Lisman became a face linking to all those issues and more. Her story and face represented the fear of every parent, and fear is a potent tool for propaganda.
Fear also led many people to search for a reason. Parents wanted to believe this would never happen to them. And they found an outlet: blaming Abigail’s parents. Many pointed out the girls had been walking freely in the city at night, as if their mothers didn’t care what happened to them. And why were the girls on Instagram in the first place? It was a cesspool of pedophiles and perverts. No girl should be allowed on Instagram before the age of fourteen, or sixteen, or seventeen, or ever. Someone had located an image from the party Naamit and Ron Lisman had been to that night, a picture in which Naamit was holding a bottle of beer. It was circulated with various captions. Mitchell wanted to punch someone.
And then he ran across a conspiracy website collecting proof that Abigail had never been kidnapped at all, that it was a ruse by her parents to catch the media’s attention because of their financial difficulties. They demonstrated several similarities to the “balloon boy” hoax from 2009, in which Richard and Mayumi Heene claimed that their son had been inside a helium balloon that had flown away.
By that point, Mitchell was sick of the internet, sick of people, sick of his job. He got up to get himself a cup of coffee. Hannah sat by her computer, watching what seemed to be CCTV footage, her eyes squinting slightly. A loose strand of hair dropped down her face, and she didn’t even seem to notice it. There was something in her intensity that glued him to his place, and he was unable to take his eyes off her. It was the first time he had noticed how green her eyes were. They were nearly olive-colored in the squad room’s dim lighting.
She pulled her stare away from the screen. “What?” she said.
“Uh… I’m getting myself some coffee,” he answered, flustered. “Do you want some?”
She glanced at the cup on her desk. It was half full. “I forgot my cup,” she said, smiling thinly. “It’s cold now. Sure, I’d be glad for some more. CCTV footage isn’t exactly the most riveting thing to watch.”
“Did it get the car?” he asked.
“Yeah, but the driver wore a ski mask, just like Peter said. I’m looking over the rest now, to see if there’s anything else we’ve missed. Anything on the Reddit threads?”
“Not much.” Mitchell shook his head. “He seemed to really like the idea of coming to Glenmore Park.”
“Yeah, well,” Hannah muttered, her eyes returning to the screen. “We all know how that one turned out.”
Mitchell went over to the coffee machine, made two cups, handed one to Hannah, and sat back down.
There were several recent mentions in the subreddit of a website called RPM Donations. Though Glen was already dead when the posts were made, Mitchell’s interest piqued. He browsed to RPM Donations. At first he didn’t really understand how it had to do with the case. It was a website focused mostly on charities for veterans and children’s expensive medical operations. Then he found the relevant post. Two days before, RPM had posted about the Abigail Lisman case, explaining that the family couldn’t possibly pay the ransom money. It had asked for donations for the ransom.
Mitchell frowned. According to recent updates, money was flowing in. There was apparently a very successful Buzzfeed article listing “The five amazing ways America is trying to save Abigail” that mentioned this charity. It had gone wildly viral, and donations tripled. Some Jewish charities donated money as well.
Mitchell did some browsing, trying to determine if it was a scam. It clearly wasn’t. RPM Donations was a well-known website, and was frequently used.
According to the last update, four hours before, they had already collected eighty percent of the ransom money.
“Hey, Hannah,” Mitchell said. “I think the Lismans are going to have the ransom to pay the kidnappers.”
Hannah finally called Clint just after eight p.m. He sounded mildly amused by her attempt to try to set up a dinner date which should probably have started an hour before. He said he was exhausted, and already in his motel room, and did not intend to go anywhere. But if she was into take out, he was just about to order some sushi.
Hannah drove over to his motel, feeling irritated with herself for calling so late, for calling at all, and for agreeing to come to his motel room. Then she decided it was all Clint’s fault, and that made her feel slightly better.
Glenmore Park had two motels, neither of them incredibly luxurious. Clint was at the Park’s Lodge, a U-shaped building with a small, almost unused swimming pool in the center. Hannah climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor and went to room 207, where Clint had told her he was staying.
He opened the door a minute after she knocked. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a gray t-shirt, but the shirt was tight, clinging to his chest, and the jeans looked good on him. Hannah suspected he had dressed up after their conversation, and regretted not doing the same. She wore the same clothes she’d worn to work that day: a faded blue button-down shirt, and black pants on which she had spilled coffee earlier. The pants were black, so the spot probably couldn’t be seen, but there was still a faint smell of caffeine surrounding her. Not exactly a seductive odor.
He smiled at her warmly. “Come in,” he said.
She walked past him. It was actually a pretty nice room, for a motel. It was brightly lit, with the bed on one side, and the bedsheets clean and straightened. There was a small glass table, about three feet tall, on the other side of the room, with three wooden chairs placed around it. Next to it stood a small desk, with Clint’s dark briefcase on it and a gray folder placed neatly on top. There were no clothes on the floor or on the bed, no books littering the desk, nothing to indicate Clint was actually staying there. She didn’t even see where he had put his suitcase.
Again she wondered if he’d cleaned up before she got there, or if he was always this clean. When she stayed at a motel, it always looked like a hurricane had struck a clothing shop.
There were two takeout boxes on the table, and two bottles of beer. Clint smiled and sat down, motioning Hannah to join him. She walked over, her eyes catching the gray folder on the desk. Someone had written A.L 03 on it. It could have been a folder about someone named Al, or about Angeles-Los, but Hannah knew that the A.L stood for Abigail Lisman.
“Are you eating, or should I start alone?” Clint asked, interrupting her thoughts. She sat down across from him, trying to clear her head. She was famished.
“I hope you like what I’ve ordered,” Clint said. “It sounded like a good combination.”
She glanced at the box. “It’s co
mbination C from Kaito Sushi, right?” she said.
“Yeah,” he looked at her in surprise.
“I eat a lot of take out,” she said. “There aren’t many sushi places in Glenmore Park, and Kaito is the best. Sure, that’s good, thanks.”
“I assume you don’t need a fork,” he said.
Hannah smiled thinly. “No, thanks,” she said. “I eat with chopsticks.”
She demonstrated by taking the chopsticks and grabbing a salmon nigiri from the box. She dipped it in some soy sauce and put it in her mouth. She wondered what was in that folder. New case notes? Were there any updates on the case? New suspects?
“How’s it going with the Glen Haney murder?” Clint asked, picking a piece of sushi himself.
Hannah swallowed. “I’m surprised you even heard about it,” she said. “Agent Mancuso sounded as if nothing could interest her less.”
“That’s not true,” Clint answered seriously. “She just needs to prioritize. We were all briefed.”
“We have a sketch of the man who dropped off the car,” Hannah said, and enjoyed the brief look of astonishment on Clint’s face. She picked up a small maki, dipping it lightly in the soy.
“Really?”
“Yup. We found a witness.”
“That’s good! Did you manage to match it?”
“No,” Hannah said.
“Send it over. We might have better luck.”
“Suddenly you’re interested?” Hannah asked.
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so angry?” he asked.
Hannah picked up another maki piece. As she was about to dip it in the sauce, it fell from the chopsticks’ grip, submerging completely in the soy. Hurriedly, she picked it up and stuck the salty thing in her mouth.
“I’m not angry,” she lied. “I’m just a bit frustrated to be pushed out of the case like that. And now you’re ignoring important leads—”
“We’re not ignoring them—”
“Fine,” she said sharply. “Prioritizing them. Whatever.” Was there any mention of the Glen Haney murder in the folder? She grabbed another nigiri piece, but her movement was too sharp. It split in two, and the rice fell back into the box while the slim strip of fish remained held tightly by the chopsticks.
“And it wasn’t our decision to limit your access to the case, Hannah,” Clint said softly. “That was a direction from above.”
Hannah looked at him doubtfully. Clint had been furious when she’d ignored his instructions in the interrogation room. A day later, their department was politely nudged away from the case. And now she was expected to believe it was a coincidence?
She grabbed another piece, carefully dipped it in the sauce, and brought it to her mouth. It dropped onto her shirt, spattering soy all over her. Great. Now she smelled like a caffeine-dipped salmon nigiri.
“I’ll get you a fork,” Clint said delicately.
“I don’t need a damn fork!” she snapped. She took a napkin and tried to wipe the spot, but she just ended up smearing it more. She could feel the soy soaking through to her skin. Clint stared at her with an expression that made her want to scream. Defiantly, she stood, unbuttoned the shirt, and threw it on the floor behind her. Then, as if he wasn’t there at all, she cleaned herself with a napkin.
His face changed as he looked at her, his lips parted. She looked back at him, her eyes narrowing. Still standing, she picked up a maki piece with her fingers, dipped it in the sauce, and put it in her mouth, licking her fingers.
“See?” she whispered. “I don’t need a fork.” She grabbed the bottle from the table, took a swig, then put it down. She felt Clint’s eyes roaming over her sheer black bra, could suddenly feel the mood in the room shifting. Warmth spread from her chest to her stomach, and she licked her lower lip.
Clint stood, and she was once again struck by how much taller than her he was. He walked to her, no more than a couple of steps, and her skin prickled in excitement as he grabbed her, his fingers tightening around her waist. She grasped the back of his head and pulled him toward her, kissing him passionately, the tastes of alcohol and Clint intermingling on her tongue.
They fumbled toward the bed, her breasts crushed against his chest. She slid her fingers into his pants as he struggled to unhook her bra, and they fell back onto the white sheets. She was consumed with need, much hungrier than before. Within moments, they were pulling their clothes off as fast as they possibly could. His hands slid up her thighs.
His skin was warm, so much warmer than hers, and feeling his athletic body pressed against hers filled her with a ravenous desire. She bit him on the shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and dug her fingernails hard into his back, letting go of all her pent up anger.
They both drowsed off for a bit, still in each other’s arms. The tension that built up inside Hannah for the past days had vanished, and she was warm and happy. Finally, Clint untangled himself from her. He asked her if she wanted to shower, and she mumbled she’d go after him. He plodded to the bathroom and closed the door.
She tried to fall asleep, but the sudden craving for a cigarette woke her up. Hannah had quit smoking three years before, but the craving still returned occasionally. She decided to get up and eat the rest of her sushi to fend off the desire. She got up, still naked, and began walking toward the small table. Then she stopped.
Her eyes fell on the gray folder.
She glanced at the bathroom door, listened to the water running, and then walked two steps and opened the folder slightly.
She just wanted a peek. She told herself she owed it to Naamit, who had put her trust in Hannah. But her reflexes took over, and she quickly pored over the pages. There were several transcripts of interviews with Jurgen Adler. Then some summaries about the online activity regarding the case. Some of them mentioned Redditors driving into Glenmore Park every day.
One of the reports mentioned some hacking attempts made on the Glenmore Park PD computer system, and the FBI. Other hackers had targeted a gas station, a local post office, and a couple of clothing shops, to get the CCTV footage from the night of the kidnapping. The hackers were being traced.
Then there was a short page on which her name was mentioned.
It was a report by Agent Clint Ward, detailing her performance in the case investigation, recommending her return to the case.
Someone cleared their throat behind her. She dropped the pages guiltily on the desk and turned around. Clint stood in the bathroom doorway, wearing his shorts. She realized she was still naked, and it made her feel even more embarrassed and exposed, caught red-handed snooping in his stuff.
“Clint, I—”
He gave a small shake of the head, his face hurt. Swallowing her tears, she quickly grabbed her clothes and clumsily put them on, avoiding his eyes. He was silent the entire time, not moving from where he stood. She walked to the motel room door, glanced at him again, then left the room and closed the door behind her.
She resisted the urge to cry all the way home. As far as she was concerned, she didn’t deserve to feel sorry for herself.
Chapter Eighteen
The kidnapper sat on the couch in her living room, jaw clenched in everlasting anger, thinking about the girl. The television was set to the local news channel, but the sound was muted. She never turned the television off anymore, not even at night when she went to sleep. It made her feel better, knowing there was movement in her house, even if it was only on the television screen. It made her feel as if she was still alive, as if no one had pressed pause on her story.
She tried to concentrate, tried to separate her feelings about the past from her plans for the future. Things were changing. There was some sort of charity collecting money for the ransom, and they were apparently about to reach that goal—that impossible goal. That had not been her original plan. But then, she was the one who had decided to put it all out in the open.
Darrel had wanted to send a ransom note made from cut-up newspapers. He hadn’t heard that the twenty-first ce
ntury had arrived. No one cut up newspapers for ransom letters anymore. And if they did, they probably used an app for that. iRansomLetter, or something.
Darrel had wanted the ransom letter to be private. But no, she’d wanted to post it on Instagram. She’d wanted the whole city to know what was going on.
She could never have guessed how far the story would blow up. According to a news report she’d seen the day before, donations were being sent even from Japan and Australia.
There was only one internet, that was the thing. Post something online, and you never knew who would read it or where.
There would be no justice here. No vindication for her. No one would pay for the past.
But she could still have a future, if she played her cards right. A future with one and a half million dollars to make her life comfortable. She could still start over, perhaps in a different state or even a different country. Buy a new, better life for herself. Wasn’t that a kind of justice?
No, a part of her said. That’s not justice. That’s compensation. It’s not the same thing.
She tried to bury that part of her away, tried to concentrate.
The girl had seen her face. That meant… Well, that could mean all sorts of things.
If the girl was returned to her parents, it would be a matter of time before…
But if she wasn’t, well then…
She deserved justice.
Could she do it? Kill a child? Perhaps she didn’t have to do it herself. She could arrange for it to happen. Would Darrel do it? No, he was too weak. He was actually getting close to the girl. He thought she hadn’t noticed the empty pizza cartons he threw away. But she had. She noticed everything.