by Jack Heath
She looks at me expectantly, but I don’t know what to say.
“It was a lot of blood,” Norman adds. “Whoever left it behind is likely to need stitches.”
Thistle nods. “Okay. We’ll start checking hospitals. Anything else we should know?”
Norman passes her a manila folder. “It’s all in here, but I’ve given you the essentials.”
“You taught at Braithwaite, didn’t you?” Thistle says.
“Briefly,” Norman says. “Go Panthers.”
“Can you tell us anything about what Biggs was like to work with?”
“I taught med science. I don’t think your victim and I ever met.” Norman turns to me. “What happened to your eye, Blake?”
“Huh?”
“Your eye.” She makes a circular motion at her own eye, as though I’m not sure what eyes are.
“Oh.” My bruise must be starting to show. “It was the dumbest thing. My neighbor, Shawn—he has this dog. I was trying to get to my car, and she ran under my legs, and I tripped. Hit my face on the side mirror.”
“Where were you going?” Norman asks. “In the car.”
“To the library.” It’s just the first thing that pops into my head.
“At four a.m.? That bruise looks about six hours old.”
I hold her gaze. “I’m not supposed to use my bathroom right now. Someone came to clean the vents yesterday, and there’s still chemicals in the air. There’s a public bathroom just outside the library. It’s the closest one.”
Norman nods. But I still can’t smother the feeling that she knows I’m lying.
“If a man goes to his doctor with an injury like that,” she says, “you know what the doctor writes on his chart?”
“Black eye?” I guess.
“DFO,” she says. “Drunk, Fell Over.”
“I don’t drink,” I say, “but thanks for your concern.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
You’re in a room with a concrete floor. You have nothing other than an egg. Can you make the egg fall six feet without breaking?
“Blake,” Vasquez says. “You still working this case?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Thistle and I are in the basement, the air stifling thanks to the humming computers and the AC keeping the mold in the walls alive. No space above our heads, the ceiling only seven feet up.
“I heard both suspects fled,” Vasquez says. “It’s up to the Houston PD to find them now, right? Your job is done.”
“I’m done when we find our missing men,” I say.
“What happened to your face?”
“Dr. Norman called it DFO. How’s your algorithm going?”
Vasquez gestures at the server humming in the corner of the basement. “So far it’s determined that all the dates you gave me were slightly cooler than average, that overall internet traffic was marginally higher, road congestion was a bit lower and, most interestingly, that visits to hospitals were up by a tenth of a percent. Is any of that useful?”
“Not to us,” I say.
Thistle asks, “Can you program it to look for missing persons or violent crime?”
“I tried that. Nothing.”
“Statewide? Nationwide?”
Vasquez just shrugs his movie-star shoulders.
I wish we could find out what was on Shannon’s computer or phone. But we still don’t have a warrant out for him.
“How are you going with Ruthven?” I ask.
“Got his phone and his computer. Still working through the data. Nothing promising. He used a dating app called nTangle, and we’re trying to track the most recent person he met on it.”
I say, “Can you get us a list of all the users he met up with?”
“Why?”
“If I was a killer, I wouldn’t want to be the most recent person on the victim’s app. So I’d wait for him to go on a couple of dates with other people before I killed him. Or I’d use his phone to assume his identity, and go on a couple of dates as him. No one looks like their picture anyway.”
“Okay,” Vasquez says. “I’ll look into that right now.”
“First,” I say, “show me this ‘weird porn.’”
Vasquez boots up Biggs’s computer. He brings up list of websites and offers me the chair.
I sit down. I don’t have a computer at home, so my exposure to pornography is limited, if you don’t count advertising and music videos. Back at the group home, a kid named Stephen Stattelis had a tattered Penthouse magazine that got shared around a lot before Mrs. Radfield found it. When it was my turn, I did find all the flesh exciting, but not for the same reasons as the other boys.
“Biggs didn’t know how to clear his browser history?” I ask.
“This all came from his ISP. He used private browsing, but not a VPN. Odd for a crypto-geek.”
I click through to one of the websites. I’d been expecting gay porn, or maybe pictures of women’s feet. What I find is something entirely different.
“Jesus,” Thistle says, looking over my shoulder. “That’s...unusual.”
Biggs’s genre of choice seems to be “giantess” porn. Videos of women filmed from a low angle to make them look huge, crushing toy cars and action figures under their stiletto heels. Photoshopped images of models in bikinis stomping through cities like Godzilla. Computer animations and cartoons of huge women crushing tiny men against their bulging breasts, suffocating them.
“So, he was a feminist,” Vasquez says dryly.
“I don’t want to oversimplify things,” Thistle says to me, “but did you notice the size of Biggs’s wife?”
“Was she huge?” Vasquez asks.
“No. Tiny.”
“Huh. Guess that means he loved her for real.”
“This is all fantasy.” I keep scrolling. “People don’t fantasize about what they already have.”
Buried under the pic and video sites, I find a database of user-submitted short stories. I find the ones Biggs liked enough to click through to page two, and I skim them. They all involve a man being seduced by a woman at least twice his size. Sometimes he fucks her, sometimes she breastfeeds him, and in one case...
She eats him.
My mouth goes dry as I read the description of the man disappearing headfirst into the woman’s huge mouth, of her gagging as she swallows him whole. Then he’s slowly digested, still alive as her stomach acid dissolves him.
“There are people out there who fantasize about being eaten?” I say, my voice cracking.
“Yup. They’re called vores.” I can hear the grin in Vasquez’s voice. “You haven’t heard of that?”
I shake my head, too entranced to speak.
“Doesn’t look like Biggs was one of them,” Thistle says, pointing to the screen. “This is the only story in his history with the ‘vore’ tag. Hey, what’s ‘unbirth’?”
“You don’t want to know,” Vasquez says. “So, are you thinking he was blackmailed, or what?”
I scroll down to the comments section. Lots of very supportive perverts. Great story! Well done!
One comment catches my eye. Anyone want to try this in real life? DM me.
I highlight the text. “There are people who volunteer to be eaten alive?”
“There’s no vore tag on that story,” Vasquez points out. “Probably just a giant role-play, however that would work. But yeah, there are some sickos out there.” He checks his gold watch. “I’m gonna tweak the algorithm, looking for connections to the dating app.”
He goes away. I just sit there, staring at the words. Anyone want to try this in real life? There’s plenty of meat at my house. But none of it is fresh. I can still taste the cheek of the man who attacked me.
Would someone let me eat them?
Thistle touches my shoulder, and I flinch.
>
“You okay, Blake?”
I stand up and back away from the computer like it’s radioactive.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine. Vasquez is right. Sickos.”
“Uh-huh.” Thistle takes over the keyboard, scrolling through the porn. “Is this the kind of stuff that turns you on, Blake?”
“Definitely not.”
I get the feeling she’s not even listening to the answer. She’s just enjoying making me uncomfortable. I wonder if I should tell her that she is my type—that I only rejected her for her own safety.
Somehow this doesn’t feel like the right moment.
“Found Biggs’s username,” Thistle says. “Shortcomings7. Classy.”
“He could be expressing remorse for his tastes,” I suggest.
“Or he just likes a dirty pun. Let’s see if he was corresponding with anyone on this forum.”
She taps and clicks around for a while. “I can’t get into his inbox without his password. But he visited the profiles of several other users, and one of them hasn’t posted any public content. SleepingBeauty319. Seems likely he exchanged private messages with Biggs.”
“He?”
Thistle rolls her eyes at my naivety. “You really think there are any real women on these giant-lady porn forums, Blake?”
She’s probably right.
“Can I see his profile?” I ask.
Thistle clicks through and leans back in her chair, frustrated. “404. Profile deleted. All I have is the username.”
“Wasn’t Sleeping Beauty the user who posted that comment? Asking who wanted to try this in real life?”
Thistle checks. “That was SleepingBeauty320. Common username.”
“Or the one person,” I say, “creating and deleting profiles to avoid leaving a lasting trace. Like burners.”
Thistle nods slowly. “So you think Biggs might have been honey-trapped? By someone pretending to be a giant woman?”
“He was a math professor. I doubt he believed in giants. But...” I trail off, thinking.
“What?”
“If you wanted to simulate a sex act with a giant, how would you do it?”
“I sure hope that’s rhetorical,” Thistle says.
Before I can explain, Vasquez is back. “Guys,” he says. “I got something.”
We both turn. Vasquez doesn’t look excited. In fact, his face is grim.
“I programmed the computer to include Ruthven’s dating app in its search patterns. It couldn’t find anything on the dates you gave me. But something else came up.”
“What?” Thistle asks.
“Sixteen missing men over the last eleven months, all from Houston, all using the same app.”
I quickly count the bodies I’ve disposed of for Charlie Warner. It’s easy to lose track, since I destroy all evidence of each one—I think this is why some killers keep trophies—but I don’t think it’s sixteen yet.
“How popular is the app?” I ask. Sixteen sounds like a lot, but Houston is a city of more than two million people.
“Forty-six thousand users in the city. But these are all white, heterosexual males of the same approximate age, height and weight. The computer thinks it’s significant.”
Those don’t sound like Charlie Warner’s victims. This is something entirely new. Thistle and I look at one another.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. “We have a fucking serial killer on our hands.”
“And he has a type,” I say.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
What is the only organ that named itself?
“How long can we keep this quiet?” I ask.
Thistle and I are in the world’s slowest elevator, on our way back up to the ground floor. Vasquez is on the phone to the director, telling her what he’s found. A serial killer is a major hassle for the FBI. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to break the news.
If the victims were women or children, we wouldn’t be assuming that they were dead. There are 46 million slaves in the world, 58,000 of them in the USA. Many missing people are eventually found in illegal brothels, small factories or private dungeons. But few of those slaves are white adult males. No one at the FBI thinks these seventeen men will be found alive, especially not the civilian consultant who’s currently digesting one of the victims.
When Vasquez ends the call, he’ll adjust his algorithm, looking for other connections between the missing men. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a clue about where the perp lives, or where he works. Or, if it’s Shannon, where he is now.
“We can’t keep it quiet,” Thistle says. “We have to make a statement.”
“Legally?”
“Ethically. People have a right to know if there’s a serial killer around.”
“But then he’ll know we’re after him,” I say. “He’ll skip town.”
“If it’s Luxford, he already knows.”
“Luxford knew one of the victims and fled from the police, but that doesn’t mean he’s the killer.”
“Even if he’s not,” Thistle points out, “the cat is out of the bag. We’ve been asking around about Biggs and Ruthven.”
I stare at the screen as the elevator clanks and whirs. “Not the other disappearances, though. They’ve only been investigated by local police.”
“We have to take the risk,” Thistle says. “Imagine you’re a tall, overweight, straight, white male in your twenties. And there’s a killer out there targeting tall, overweight, straight, white males in their twenties. Don’t you have a right to know about it?”
I can’t believe this. “Catching the killer is a better way of protecting those people than warning them.”
“The public is a resource. They can help us catch him, if we tell them what to look for. Did you think of that?”
“Great.” I put on my best newsreader voice. “Welcome to Fox News. First to Houston, Texas, where an unarmed black man has been shot by a tall, overweight, straight, white male who assumed the man was a serial killer.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Blake,” Thistle says dryly. “We both know that wouldn’t make the news.”
I don’t laugh. “What if the killer already has his next victim? He could be holding him captive, but hasn’t killed him yet. The vic would be a loose end. If the perp realizes we’re closing in, he’ll kill him before he runs.”
Thistle looks at me. “You really think that’s a risk?”
“It’s possible,” I say. I can’t tell her the real reason that I don’t want this on TV. Once it goes to air, it’s only a matter of time before Warner realizes I’m still working the case.
“Well, then,” she says, “we’d better catch the killer fast. Because the director will make a statement either way. Probably today.”
Something connects in my brain. “Did Biggs use the app?” I ask. “He was married.”
“You’re sweet,” Thistle says. “I hate to break it to you, but some men occasionally cheat on their wives.”
The idea slips away before I can grasp it. Her voice echoes through my mind, around and around like a carousel. You’re sweet.
Focus, I tell myself.
The elevator doors open and we walk out toward the lobby.
“Biggs doesn’t fit the rest of the profile, either,” I say. “He’s older, shorter, less heavyset than the other victims.”
Thistle chews her thumbnail for a minute. “What are you thinking?” she asks finally.
“Maybe they’re not connected.”
“Even though their phones were dumped at the same place?”
A young woman stands up and approaches us across the lobby. Biggs’s daughter. Hope.
“Miss Biggs,” Thistle says, surprised. “Are you okay?”
Hope nods. “I was, um, wondering if I could talk to Mr. Blake.”
* * *
The cafeteria is a large, bright room with long tables under a low ceiling. A TV babbles quietly in one corner, the screen reflecting the glare from the windows opposite. I grab my lunch from the fridge, even though it’s only ten a.m., and steal a Nespresso pod from someone else’s stash. I make Hope a coffee with a rattling machine that has probably never been descaled.
Thistle has gone to interview the cops who originally investigated the other disappearances. She looked grateful to be leaving. Thistle is naturally honest—I guess it’s easier to withhold the information about the severed hand if she doesn’t have to talk to the family.
I’d rather not miss the interviews with the other cops, but secondhand observations have limited value. And the other victims all seemed just like Ruthven. Biggs is the odd one out. Hope’s story could be key to this whole thing.
“Here you go,” I say, putting a paper cup of thin espresso in front of her. “You want cream? Sugar?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Okay.” I sit down and take a bite out of my sandwich. “You hungry?” I ask, my mouth full. “I can get you something.”
“I’m fine.” She looks at my lunch. “What is that?”
I realize it’s actually her father. “Chicken,” I say.
She takes a deep breath. “I wanted to thank you,” she says. “My mom, she doesn’t like talking about what happened last year. Going over it again, without Dad there, it might have been too much.”
I assume “what happened last year” is her suicide attempt. “Why’d you do it?”
She looks taken aback for a second. Most people probably ask more carefully than that, or not at all.
“There’s this study,” she says. “Scientists—I assume they were scientists—snipped the connection between left brain and right brain in a few people. Then they showed instructions to the left eye only, like stand up or walk. The subjects didn’t realize they’d seen the instructions, but they obeyed, anyway. When the scientists asked why they were standing up or walking, the subjects made up a reason. Like, I was bored.”