by A. C. Fuller
"Can we meet at home in an hour?"
She offered a weak, "Sure," then hung up.
I returned to the office, where Bird and most of my staff huddled around computers, trying to find more details online. Shannon paced in the employee lounge in the corner, back turned to the office, talking on her phone.
When she turned and stuffed the phone in her pocket, she gestured for me to come over.
We sat side by side on a couch and Shannon jotted a few notes in her notebook, then looked up. "Police source said the stuff on Twitter is right. Her throat was cut with a razor blade in her bathtub. Razor in her hand. Just like with Baumgartner, the first officer at the scene thought it was a suicide. But it wasn't. Something about the angle of the cut, bruises around her wrist. Plus, how would she not have dropped the razor after slitting her own throat? She was murdered, Alex. Another murder, badly staged as a suicide. That makes Burnside, Baumgartner, and Takasago. Three dead journalists in five days. He said police were meeting on it all morning. They're pissed it leaked to the press. I'm pretty sure they're getting ready to call this a serial killer."
"Wait, wait, wait," I said. Shannon's mind was moving fast, and I felt like I was in a car careening down a mountain, sticking my feet through the floor like Fred Flintstone to try to make it slow down. "You said they're getting ready to call this a serial killer. Does that mean they're starting to look at Burnside as a murder, not a suicide? Because that would be new."
"No," she said. "Not yet. But they will. They have to, right?"
"Maybe, but…" My question from earlier was still fresh in my mind, as if on quiet repeat. If I'd interrogated the cops about their claim that it was a suicide, instead of 'checking it out', would things have played out differently?
"What, Alex?"
"It's weird is all. Three deaths. Two they're happy to call murders staged as suicides. One they're not. Why would that be?"
"Could be a number of reasons. They could be covering the department's ass. Don't want to admit they got that one wrong out of the gate. Or they're being cautious. Maybe the killer staged Burnside's murder more effectively and they don't have enough evidence to call it murder. But they will. Think about it. They have no way of getting to motive, right? They don't have the notebook. Once we publish what we know, they'll have the information they need to go after motive."
"What I don't see is how Takasago would be connected to anything we've found so far."
Shannon opened her mouth to speak, then stood and got a cup of cold brew in a tall glass. She took a gulp as she sat again. "Other than the obvious connections, you're right."
"What are the obvious connections?"
"Journalist in Seattle. Killed and badly staged as suicide."
"I'm talking about the CIA connection, the motive for the killing. Suki worked on social issues, sexual assault, that kind of stuff. And we still don't have anything connecting Baumgartner to the CIA."
"I don't know much about Takasago. I think I went to a networking and drinks thing with her way back—Young Women Journalists Unite or something—she sipped champagne and I drank water because I couldn't afford anything else. Kind of resented her, actually. You could tell she was gonna be hot shit."
"I knew her a little. Greta knew her well. There's something..."—I got out my phone—"The huge story that broke her out into the national consciousness. Massimo Brock."
Shannon watched as I pulled up the piece, which was still on Vanity Fair's website. It would likely be one of the most-read stories on the site today, despite being years old. "Greta said the exposé on Massimo Brock had taken Suki two years to report, and that she'd almost buried it many times out of fear of the retaliation she might get if she published it. Three publications had turned down the story once it was complete before she finally published it on her own blog. It went viral, then Vanity Fair bought it. It ended up launching three different investigations into Brock."
"I remember. The story ended him."
"So that's obviously her biggest story. What I don't get is how it relates to Burnside or Baumgartner or the CIA."
We read the first section together.
As long as there have been people with problems, there have been self-help gurus. Some focus on money, others on breaking through fear. Massimo Brock—born Massimo Gugliata in the Bronx in 1975—specializes in male empowerment. According to interviews with over two dozen women, he also specialized in sexual assault.
Brock is the Founder and CEO of Brock Enterprises, Inc., a company that makes millions selling male-centric seminars, as well as a line of exercise equipment, supplements, books, films, and more. His self-financed documentary, "Grow a Pair," released on Youtube, has garnered over three hundred million views. People close to him refer to him as "Tony Robbins for real men."
But rumors have followed Brock for years. Rumors of tax evasion, verbal abuse against staff members, and sexual assault. Previous attempts to investigate and publish the story fell short of the demands of evidence. Through a combination of threats, abuse, and confidentiality agreements, Brock and his associates have managed to keep the story from breaking into the mainstream press. The stories stayed rumors. Until now.
In the last two years, we have come to learn the details of these assaults from interviews with over two dozen women. "He pulled me into his dressing room before a big speech," a former intern told us. "He kissed me violently, like he didn't even know I was there, jammed his hand up my skirt, then pushed me out into the hallway like a bag of trash. Minutes later, he was on stage in front of a thousand angry men."
Another woman describes a time when Brock went further. "He raped me after a podcast recording session," an audio engineer based in Los Angeles told us. "I came to his house with the equipment, we recorded six one-hour episodes and he was flirting with me between recording sessions. He never let up. Afterwards, as I packed the equipment, he offered me a drink. I accepted." According to the woman, she woke up in his bed the next morning, naked, with only foggy memories of what happened. "I'm sure I only had the one drink. He must have spiked it with something. When I left he told me he'd destroy my career if I ever said anything. At first I thought it was my fault. Now I know it wasn't."
These are just two of over a dozen stories about Brock that we will relate in this piece. Stories that paint a picture of an angry man with a long history of abuse and sexual violence.
Shannon put her feet up on the coffee table. "Man, that's amazing reporting. I wish like hell I'd published that story." She shook her head. "Maybe the connection has something to do with protecting powerful men. I could see the CIA wanting to do that."
"I don't see it," I said. "Brock was a used car salesman. A loser with a good smile who watched Tom Cruise's scenes in Magnolia one too many times and took it seriously. He had no real political clout."
"Are you kidding? If he ever decided to get political, he could have swayed the votes of millions of twenty-year-olds who live in their mom's basement."
"You ever watch the documentary? I never heard him say a word about politics. Part of the schtick is to create a fantasy world where everything is simple and awesome, to avoid the messy reality of politics."
Shannon put her phone on her lap, where she'd opened Brock's documentary. She scrolled forward to the scene of him delivering one of his high-priced "seminar" speeches.
In the video, Brock stalked the stage like a lion looking for prey. He glared at the audience with a look I thought was disdain. After watching for a few seconds, though, I realized it was probably intended as a get-fired-up look, as though Brock was trying to imbue the audience members with his laser-like focus, with Red-Bull-fueled awesomeness. "Men, and you brave few women out there, welcome! In the next ninety minutes you will rediscover the sense of masculinity you've lost through years and years of pussification, all while taking control of your finances and reclaiming mastery over your life. Does that sound like something you want?"
A weak cheer came from the audience.
"Grow a pair!" Brock shouted. "Does. That. Sound. Like. Something. You. Want? Let me hear it!"
"Yes!" the audience screamed.
"That's better. All of you just took your first step toward reclaiming your inner man. And that includes you women. You are all welcome to kick as much ass as you want, as long as dinner is ready when we get home."
A few chuckles emerged from the audience. "Don't laugh!" Brock ordered. "Why is it so wrong to demand a meal when we get home? Women have demanded physical protection for millennia. Who worked the coal mines? Who built the skyscrapers? Who fought the wars? We did. And all for their protection. Is it really too much to ask for dinner when we get home?" He laughed to himself, as though lost in a wistful memory. He was a polished performer. "When I was little, I told my dad I wanted to be a baker when I grew up, and do you know what he said?"
The line was a setup, obviously one he'd used before, because the whole audience shouted in unison, "Grow a pair!"
"That's right," Brock continued. "He told me to grow a pair. Best advice he ever gave me." He posed like a bodybuilder and flexed, his chest and biceps nearly bursting from his tight black t-shirt. "Can you imagine using these muscles to bake cupcakes? He told me to grow a pair, and I did." He relaxed the pose and continued across the stage, stopping to point at different sections of his audience. "So when you come to me and say you aren't making enough money at your lame-ass job, do you know what I'll tell you?"
"Grow a pair!" the audience intoned. He'd worked the audience into a frenzy, and they chimed in at all the right spots.
"And when you come to me crying, telling me your wife or girlfriend is mad at you for cheating on her, do you know what I'll tell you?"
"Grow a pair!"
"And when you come to me blaming all your little candy-ass problems on someone else, or some situation out of your control, do you know what I'll tell you?"
"Grow a pair!"
"That's right. In the next two hours, with my expertise, you are going to grow a pair. A pair so big they'll lead you out of this room and into a dominant position in life whether that be finances, athletics, or relationships."
I clicked off the video, fighting the urge to punch the screen. Shannon, to my surprise, was laughing.
"You're not offended by that?" I asked. "I find that guy repulsive."
"Oh c'mon, Alex, grow a pair!"
I gave her my are-you-serious look.
"He's a moron," Shannon said. “A loser, an airport-hotel self-help guru."
I shook my head. "I think he can do a lot of real damage."
"You think he'd have Suki Takasago murdered?"
"I doubt it. I can see why he'd be pissed, but he's under investigation by the IRS and three different police departments. He's trying to keep his ass out of jail—and the story was a year ago."
"I'll bet there's a connection to Burnside and Baumgartner. But if there's not, we need to remember that Suki was on the rise. Even if the Brock thing doesn't have a CIA connection, she could have been working on a new story that did. She could have been killed not because of something she published, but something she was going to publish."
My phone buzzed with a text.
Greta: On my way home. Are you?
"Greta knew Suki well," I said. "I need to be with her."
She turned away. "I'm gonna head home, too."
This caught me off guard. I assumed she'd want to stay at the office to continue looking into Massimo Brock.
"Is everything okay?”
She packed her laptop hastily, not looking directly at me. "Fine."
Something felt off, but I didn’t stick around to find out what. My mind was on Greta. "Okay," I said on my way out. "Let's meet up first thing tomorrow."
Our nanny was on her way out the door when I arrived. Greta sat on the couch with Smedley, who leapt up to give me his spot.
I flopped down next to Greta. "I'm so sorry. I still can't believe it."
She stared blankly into space. "Cleo's sleeping. Can you turn on the news?"
"I already have more information than the news. I don't think you want to hear it."
"I do."
I glanced at the bassinet next to the couch, where Cleo lay silently. "You sure she’s asleep?"
"She's completely out," Greta said, closing her eyes.
I told her the details Shannon got from her source, about the belief inside the department that it was another murder, badly-staged as a suicide.
Greta's face remained expressionless. "Not surprised," she said when I finished. "I knew there was no chance she killed herself."
"Well, Shannon's police source agrees. They aren't officially saying the murders are connected, but word is they're being investigated as though they are."
Greta opened her eyes to let a few tears escape, then closed them. I knew she was processing her feelings, which she often did in silence. Suddenly, her eyes popped open. "Wait, if someone's targeting successful, high-profile journalists, you could be next."
"No, that's not…Shannon and I think it's connected to the CIA somehow and that wouldn't…"
I trailed off because our story no longer sounded plausible. Since Suki's death, the press had shifted its pursuit. With two dead journalists—Burnside and Baumgartner—the key was to find a connection point between them. With three dead, the story was different: a serial killer was indiscriminately killing journalists. Any of us could be next.
Greta's face had reddened. "The CIA!" she blurted. "Dewey Gunstott and that whole Operation Mockingbird thing? And who is Shannon?"
"I told you about her. Young journalist. She was at the scene the night I went to identify the Burnside's body. She was working on the story and we got to talking. We've been researching the thing together since we got back from the funeral."
"Oh, you have?"
I'd told Greta that I was working on a big story, but not what it was about, and I'd only mentioned Shannon once or twice. Greta wasn't jealous I was working with a woman, she was pissed I was working on a potentially dangerous story. She respected hard-hitting investigative journalism, but she didn't want the father of her child doing it, especially given my history of getting into trouble. "You're pissed about the story, right, not Shannon?"
"The story. I remember you mentioning Shannon."
I sighed. "Look, Burnside was my professor, my mentor. I saw early on that it might not have been suicide. I felt I owed it to him to look into it."
Greta went quiet.
I put a hand on her knee. "I think we both need a night off. Did you talk with Suki's brother?"
"Yes, he'd already heard and he was hysterical. He got off the phone with their mom and dad five minutes before I called. They're flying in from Japan. Probably on their way to the airport right now."
"God, that must be awful for them." I looked over at Cleo. "I can't even imagine."
"Me neither," Greta said. "There's no getting over it. I've had clients who've lost children and they don't recover. They learn to cope, to go on with life, but there's a hole in them forever."
I reached slowly for Cleo. Hand resting on her soft, warm head, I gazed out the window. It was around noon, the time of day when the sun backlights the thick gray sky, giving the city a bright gray sheen. I thought about the bustle of the office, Shannon back at her apartment, and the strange vibe I'd gotten from her before we parted.
My heart ached for Suki and her family, and for Greta. But for the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt content. I didn't want to solve the case. Didn't want to know who the killer was. Greta stared at me, eyes wide open, imploring me silently. I knew what she wanted, and I wanted it as well.
I wanted nothing to do with the story.
Chapter 17
Sunday, 5 AM
The killer's note didn't change what I wanted, but it changed what I had to do. I read it the next morning on the Seattle Times website, like almost every Seattleite and millions of others around the world.
I
'd slept better than expected and still wore my pajamas when I logged on to read about the upcoming Seahawks game—a little distraction—and had just taken my first sip of coffee when I saw it on the homepage. I read it once quickly, stumbling over words like I was falling downhill.
Then I read it again more slowly.
When Greta walked in for her morning coffee, I waved for her to come over. "Cleo still asleep?" I asked.
"I fed her right before you woke up. She's down for a while."
"Someone's taking credit for the murders. Read this."
I read it a third time as she read over my shoulder.
Dear world,
I am the killer you're all so excited about. It gives me great pleasure to write these words. It gives me great pleasure to know that you all know I am taking the lives of those who do not deserve them. I will not tell you more about me, not yet. There are more journalists to kill.
Why do I want to kill journalists?
First and foremost, they lie. They lie about men. They lie about politics. They lie about guns. They lie about money. They lie about "science." They lie about immigrants and gold and banks and cars and everything else there is to lie about. Some do so intentionally, others do so out of laziness, and the belief that whatever fits their agenda must by definition be true. Do you need proof that they lie? Just look at the headlines of the last 24 hours. One lie about me has been repeated over and over and over.
I have killed two journalists so far, not three.
I killed the science editor at the Seattle Times because he is part of a global plot to destroy America by pushing the fake science of global warming. He falsified data, he deliberately misinterpreted other data, because he wants to see our system fail and make Americans suffer. He deserved to die so I killed him. I was the source who was supposed to meet him at Green Lake. I told him I had a big tip about the EPA falsifying the rate of glacial ice melt—just the kind of nonsense story he was known for. Loser!
I will prove to you I killed him because accuracy matters. Look back over his phone records. The dead science editor received three calls from a number ending in 6111 over the 24 hour period before he died. The second of those calls lasted 61 seconds. Those are the calls during which I set up a time to meet him, and kill him.