by Marie Reyes
When he closed his eyes, he saw images of the video flicker in and out of view. One image stuck more than the others, the victim in the video. He did not know who this person was. Maybe a father, brother, uncle, or just an actor. Was someone out there missing him? The footage could be old for all he knew. Well, he couldn't sleep, so he may as well do some research.
Even whilst scrolling through his phone, the face of the man as he was being cut into, kept flashing up in the darkness, like a scene from a slasher flick. He'd seen some shit before, like when he and Steve worked their way through the twenty most disturbing films list. This was different.
He pulled up his search engine to see if there was any public record of this crime. It took him a moment to decide what to put in the search box. Man, video, stabbed. No, not specific enough. Man tied to chair, video, cut up. That would do for a start. There was nothing official. No mention of it on any news sources. All he could find was a discussion thread on a website, and a link to a group.
Let's find this sick fuck. Who's in?
It was probably idiotic, but he'd always had a desire, deep down, to solve crimes. If he wasn't such a wuss, he maybe would have tried to be a homicide detective, but for some reason that idea seemed fanciful, like the kind of dream career a teenager would want, but when they inevitably realized the competition was impossibly high, would give up on. Fuck it. He was all in.
Chapter Three
MAPLE RIDGE-
BRITISH COLUMBIA
"Martin. I hope you can appreciate we have done all we can for you, but at the end of the day, we are a business. We've tried to work around your appointments, and your sick leave, but there is only so much we can do, you know. I liaised with HR, and they have already made exceptions for the number of absences. You need to want to help yourself."
His boss looked at him from across the desk with pity, almost like she might cry. Only a year ago, he had been her boss. It was fine, and he was glad to be done with it all. For the last few weeks, maybe even months if he was being honest, he knew his days were numbered.
"I understand." There was nothing left to say. He had the money from his father's will, and his severance pay, and now he could hold up in the house his parents had left him and avoid people for a while. No pretending to keep it together. Not having to smile when he felt like jumping off the office roof. No early mornings when getting out of bed seemed impossible. "Do you mind if I collect my stuff later? I'd like to go home."
"That's absolutely fine. Whatever you need." She leaned across the desk and squeezed his forearm. He forced a smile. She was a good boss who genuinely cared about her staff, anyone could see that. It seemed strange that apart from when he came back to collect the things from his desk, he'd probably barely see her, or anyone from the office again, unless he bumped into them in the street.
It was probably for the best. The whole thing was humiliating. He was hurtling towards forty-years-old, yet his last remaining parent dying broke him in two, until he was no longer a man, just a quivering ball of anxiety that could barely convince himself to leave the house in the morning, and just couldn't stop crying.
He walked across the stretch of blue carpet from the presentation room for the last time, past the sleek rectangular desk, and stylish yet uncomfortable chairs. He wouldn't miss them. He kept his head low and prayed that no one would stop him on his way out. This was already embarrassing enough. He glided quickly, and hopefully inconspicuously across the office, out the main doors, and opted for the stairs to avoid being trapped in an elevator with a colleague asking questions.
~~~
When the door shut behind him, he let out a sigh of relief. He was back in his safe place, surrounded by his parent's things and that familiar smell. He insisted on using the same brand of cleaning products and laundry detergent that they used and cooking the same meals they would cook. He wanted everything as close to how his father left it as possible, and his father had done the same after his mother died only two months before. It was up to him to keep their legacy alive. He would not let their beautiful home fall to ruin or be replaced by some other family.
Most dogs eagerly came to greet their owners when they got home from work, but Dana, his parent's pit bull, didn't move from her favorite position on the couch. She had taken it as hard as he had and was never quite the same. For the first couple of months after his father passed, she would come to the door, jumping and barking, tail wagging, until Martin opened the door, and he could swear a glint of disappointment would flash over those deep shiny eyes, and she would go back to her spot.
He parked himself next to her, moved cushions aside, pulled the coffee table towards himself, and opened his laptop. Dana shuffled slightly and rested her head on his leg. Martin opened a tab and typed in the URL for his favorite gambling website.
The colorful flashing buttons beckoned him with the promise of a dopamine hit, but he thought better of it. He would not blow the money his father had saved years for, on a quick thrill. He had spent so much money already.
He scrolled through pictures of lost pets, and other people's children on his social media with disinterest. A red button sat at the top of the screen with the number 16 next to it. He hadn't read his messages for days. The thought of it made his heart pump madly. Most things seemed to do that these days.
Now he had infinite time on his hands, he set several of his favorite television series to download. He could become immersed in other people's worlds and forget about his life for hours at a time. The website he used to illegally download his shows popped up with banners showing soft-core pornography or the promise to make $100k a year online, and he cursed as he accidentally hit an ad at the bottom of the screen when the page scrolled up, seemingly of its own accord.
A video flashed up on this screen and he tried clicking the little cross in the right-hand corner, but it seemed to jam up. For a guy proficient with IT, he really didn't give a shit about viruses, not on this computer anyway. He used this laptop for gambling, streaming, and downloading, among other things. Once the video started playing, he felt powerless to stop it, and sat there watching like some voyeur.
A man tied to a chair. A dark figure. He wondered what the hell he was looking at as he stared at the screen, waiting for something to happen, but wasn't quite prepared for it when it did. As if Dana sensed his shock, she looked up at him with those dark, shiny eyes with the glistening white around the edges. He paused the video and wrapped his arms around the dog, but Dana got up and wandered to her water bowl. The sound of her lapping tongue traveled from the kitchen.
Martin moved the progress bar across the screen, seeing the whole video in fast-forward, quick enough for the horror of it not to have time to sink in, but slow enough to make out what happened. It had to be fake, he decided, but part of him couldn't shake the feeling it was real.
He pulled up a search engine and tried various combinations of words he could think of to describe what he had just seen. Nothing relevant came up, so he typed in the name of the video, cringing as he typed the words. FATTY MADE TO PAY. The first two websites were cam-sites for big, beautiful woman. The third result was for a forum. He stopped on a post asking if the video was real and clicked on the link. He created an account straight away. Quicky_Mart.
Pickletubs118: Is this real? If it is, that is creepy AF.
Shortstacks: Looks pretty real. I'm convinced.
Pipes1983: I saw this yesterday. Gave me nightmares, and nothing normally gives me nightmares.
Pickletubs118: If anyone is interested, I'm starting a private group, invite only: www.meetnchat365247.com/group839/0010258
I wanna know if this is legitimate and could use your help.
Against his better judgment, Martin asked for an invite, not quite sure what compelled him. Whoever had started the messenger group, accepted his invite almost instantaneously.
Chapter Four
CHICAGO
Kristen checked her cell. 11.36am. No doubt her dad would co
mplain about her being late. He should be grateful she comes to visit him so much. Yes, the divorce must have been hard on him, but he could barely function before they separated, and now, here she was, breakfast supplies in hand... well, brunch now.
She pulled into his driveway, shut off the engine, undid her seatbelt, and took a deep breath. Time to listen to him bad-mouth Abbey all afternoon. It's not as if she hadn't warned him about her. She'd already had two husbands before him. But now her dad was on his second marriage, so he was gaining on her.
With a bag of groceries in hand, she slid out of the car and shut the door. Shit, she'd left her spare key in the car. Her hands were full, so she rang the doorbell. The bag started feeling weighty in her arms. He was taking his sweet time. She rang again.
Great, Mrs. Gretsky, the next-door neighbor had spotted her. She smiled and prayed she wouldn't get dragged into a conversation about her collection of garden ornaments. The amount of time she'd had to spend listening to her dad moan about how the gnomes and flamingos ruined the aesthetics of the neighborhood.
Why wasn't he answering? She put her stuff on the doorstep and banged her fist against the door, but there was nothing in response. She muttered to herself and ran back to the car. The curtains were tightly drawn, so she couldn't see anything from outside and put her key in the lock. Silence. There was no blare of the television. The lights were off. Maybe he was still asleep. She felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe he was really depressed, and she had been too busy to really listen to him, to read between the lines.
"Dad? Brunch time." She put on her cheeriest voice but could hear the hint of worry in it. Her voice echoed. It was such a large place for just one person. Must feel lonely. "If you don't wake up, I'm going to have to eat all this without you!" She turned into the living room and the bag slipped from her hands.
Time slowed. Her body seemed incapable of acting. Glued to the spot, her eyes tried to make sense of what they were seeing but couldn't. Her stomach clenched as she willed herself to move. It was obviously too late to do anything. She couldn't do it. It was too much to see him close up.
Blood everywhere. So beaten he was unrecognizable. She wanted to take him in her arms and cry, or scream, or both. Why couldn't she move? She didn't even realize she was hyperventilating until her breathlessness brought her to her knees, and her body shook as she sobbed, crumpled on the floor. It wasn't him. If she didn't look too closely, she wouldn't have to accept it.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and tried to unlock it, but her fingers felt useless, like they weren't even hers, and she had no control over them. The phone hit the floor and skidded across the room, closer to him. The one person she had in the entire world. The thought of getting closer filled her with fear. She stopped focusing and kept her eyes close to the ground.
If you don't look, it's not real.
It was something her dad told her to say when she was a kid and was convinced there was a monster in the corner of her bedroom. She recited it now as she neared her cell phone. She picked it up, turned away from the blood, the carnage. More blood, this time smeared on the wall. She was almost sick in her mouth. The blood had dried, so it looked almost brown, stark against the magnolia wall. YOU DESERVED IT. Her stomach lurched again, and this time, she couldn't contain it.
Chapter Five
SEATTLE
Piper leaned against the door after she shut it, and tears streamed down her cheeks. It didn't take long before she was sliding down the door and sat on the floor, hugging her knees. She sniffed, trying to avoid fluid leaking from her nose, and wiped her damp cheeks with her sleeve. Keep it together.
Still on the floor, she groped around in her pocket for her crumpled pack of cigarettes and eased one out of the box with her trembling fingers. Before, she had been shaking with upset — now, she was trembling with anger. Who the hell was the mother of her ex-husband's new girlfriend, to tell her she couldn't come to her own child's birthday party? It was hosted at her house because she had enough space for the giant bouncy house, but still. The cigarette helped. She inhaled deeply, regulating her breathing. It's fine.
That familiar urge emerged, starting in her solar plexus and rising in her chest. A strange yearning feeling she couldn't describe, like her body was screaming for something to take the edge off. The fact that the liquor store across the road was now boarded up, took away some of the temptation, the rest she could manage on her own.
She pulled up her chair to the table in front of the window and waited for her computer to load. Her skin prickled, still hot with anger, and she gazed out of the window, out onto the street until the home screen flashed up.
The wallpaper on her desktop, was the last painting she had done before giving up the hobby for good. Acrylic fluid art. When she was a child, she enjoyed painting things to look as true to life as possible. As she got older, she resented the rigidness of photorealism. Art should be an escape from reality. She started to pour paint onto a canvas, manipulating it with a hairdryer, or household objects until something emerged. She had no idea what would come of it until it revealed itself to her. It was something pure, spontaneous, and freeing.
She clicked on the internet browser icon and went back to a place where she could unleash her rage for the day before it overtook her.
Let's find this sick fuck. Who's in?
Pipes1983: Anyone have any luck finding anything out about the victim yet?
Quicky_Mart: Unfortunately not.
Pipes1983: What about the killer? He really is a sick fuck.
Quicky_Mart: What makes you assume it's a guy?
Pipes1983: Come on, it's always a guy.
Quicky_Mart: #notallmen. Only joking. It probably is.
Pipes1983: I was racking my brains, but there is nothing to go on.
Quicky_Mart: I know. It's infuriating.
Pipes1983: Is there any way of telling who posted the video? I assume not?
Quicky_Mart: The website it was posted to could find the IP address. Pickletubs118 messaged them, I think. They could give that to the police.
Pipes1983: Which police? We don't even know where this person is.
Quicky_Mart: Cyber police. Is that a thing?
Pipes1983: I can't believe there is no mention of it anywhere. What if it is fake? What if we're just wasting our time?
Quicky_Mart: Maybe. Maybe not. The way I see it, we could help, and it could just be nothing, in which case, we just look a bit stupid. Or we do nothing, and they get away with it. I know it's a long shot, but I have nothing else going on in my life. I want to do something.
Pipes1983: Agreed.
This stranger just read her mind. There was someone else out there as lame as her. She wondered if his username was some sort of innuendo. Did he like quickies? If she asked him that, the conversation would likely devolve. No matter what you were talking about online, it would always end up in smut.
Quicky_Mart: I think our best bet is locating the victim, not the killer. We know the victim was North American.
Pipes1983: How do you know that?
Quicky_Mart: I played the video at full volume through some awesome speakers. The accent is North American, well, I'm almost certain it is.
Pipes1983: Wow. What else did you hear?
Quicky_Mart: The killer kept asking the guy to apologize. They never revealed what for though.
Pipes1983: So, they must know each other. The victim must have done something to piss this guy off.
Quicky_Mart: I'll see if I can post an enhanced sound recording on here. Get your input.
Pipes1983: That would be great. Thanks.
Quicky_Mart: So, I can't find reports of any similar murders, but I'm scrolling through missing people. What do you make of this? Could be him, right? www.wewillfindthem.com/DeanForester
Pipes1983: No way. He looks completely different. Look at the chin and the eyes. Not the same person. I might call it a day. Before I go... what's with the username?
Quicky_Mart: I start
ed using this username when I was doing marathons. Haven't done one for ages though, but it stuck.
Pipes1983: I was going to do the Seattle Marathon once upon a time, but then I remembered, I hate running.
Quicky_Mart: Seattle? You from there?
Pipes1983: I am.
Quicky_Mart: I live near Vancouver. We're practically neighbors.
Pipes1983: That's cool.
K-meister: Hello? Please take this forum down. It's disrespectful. People sharing this video should be arrested. It's not right.
Pickletubs118: I'm sorry, but I disagree. We're just trying to help.
K-meister: It's not your job to help. That's up to the police. You should stop spreading this around. I'm going to get this site, and all sites with the video shut down.
Pickletubs118: Who are you to censor us? We're just trying to help.
K-meister: That man in the video, that's my father.
Chapter Six
LONDON
Aadesh scrolled through memes looking for inspiration, anything. He hadn't come up with any new comedy material for ages, and the thought of going back to his barista job wasn't helping. The more he wanted something, the more fleeting it would become, hovering just out of reach. He wanted to make people laugh, to be able to work a room and invoke a reaction in them. If only he could string together the right words, in the right order.
He imagined himself stood in front of a real crowd, not the small venues he was used to. Despite being deeply uncomfortable in most social situations, a crowd didn't scare him. On stage, he was invincible, and larger than life. He didn't even have the forum as an excuse to procrastinate anymore. After the daughter of the first victim ranted at them, no one had been on it for days. His latest obsession was over before it began.