Robby the R-Word

by Leif Wright

  Yeah, trucking was the life. He had become somewhat of an expert at bar trivia games, able to tell you on demand how many Golden Globes Martin Lawrence had won, or how many fuel rods the typical nuclear reactor ran through in a month. He knew waitresses by name across six states, could tell you which steakhouses needed to close, which should think about franchising.

  He listened to talk radio all day (Rush Limbaugh) and all night (Coast to Coast with Art Bell and the parade of lesser-thans that had followed him), because talk radio kept him awake while he drove. He knew Art Bell was full of shit—and Limbaugh, too, for that matter—but you listened to what was available, and pickings were slim.

  On the few breaks when he did spend time at home, Peter was mostly asleep—or drunk. Or both. A free man, he often said, oughta damn well be able to do what he damn well pleased on his own damn time. And he damn well wanted to get hammered and sleep.

  It was amazing, Robby thought, the sheer volume of information that was available about people for free on social media sites. And then, for a few bucks, you could find out more. A lot more.

  Peter Wyatt, for instance, had successfully paid an online firm to remove points from his driver’s license after one too many tickets threatened his livelihood. Mack Rutherford and his wife had gone through a torrent of marital counseling and appointments with lawyers in the mid-90s, but whatever they were on about, they seemed to have worked it out. Mack had also had a house foreclosed in the recession of 2008, but he had quickly recovered and bought another. Peter had faced an ugly probate battle with his older sister when their parents had died, but then the sister had died, too, and Peter had wound up with everything anyway. He had faced a date rape charge in 1997, but the victim failed a lie detector, so she refused to testify, not realizing, Robby assumed, that lie detectors weren’t admissible in criminal court. The accusation had been tenuous anyway, with her claiming she had said, “Don’t,” and him claiming she had said, “Don’t stop.” She had waited until he inherited his family’s money before making her claim, which she said had occurred five years before.

  Both guys were equally good candidates to be the truck stop killer, in Robby’s mind. The killings had stopped after Mack’s tornado of marriage-saving actions, but Peter was sleazy all the way around.

  His eyes blurred, then refocused on the screen in front of him. He knew what he had to do next.

  23

  AFTER THE UNEMPLOYMENT HAD RUN OUT, OPTIONS FOR A PUDGY, mild-mannered accountant with a receding hairline were less than promising, especially when the fat cats in New York had made long bets on shortsightedness and had tanked the economy, taking almost a trillion dollars in welfare for the rich to bail themselves out of the hole they had dug on the backs of the middle class.

  Not that Chris Jackson was bitter about it as he settled for doing the books for three family-owned restaurants to make his own ends meet. Smelling like meatballs every day when he got home had only made him pudgier—and angrier at his financial situation. The money paid the bills, but that was all. Not that it mattered anymore. He had nothing to spend extra money on anyway. So he spent his days poring over the fine details of hundreds of receipts, purchase orders, liquor permit fees, vendor statements, equipment lease payments, food order efficiency, and on and on ad nauseum.

  It kept his mind free to ruminate over what was quickly becoming his life’s passion—doling out justice at night. He had even started working out at home while he watched TV at night. Nothing crazy, just running in place, some jumping jacks, push ups, sit ups, and curling some light weights. Eventually, he knew, he might encounter someone who could put up some real resistance, and he’d need to be ready. He had also enrolled in—but not started yet—firearms classes. Eventually, he’d need to start carrying more than a tire thumper.

  Maybe he’d also take martial arts—not that karate bullshit, either. Maybe that Israeli stuff; it looked kind of badass. He envisioned a life of a vigilante, handing out justice that the legal system couldn’t. He could do it, too, he was sure. He was already getting better at it. The bishop job had gone just as planned—the first time that had happened. He had practiced for hours on this one, handing the photo, swinging the tire thumper to hit below the temple, not directly on it, so the energy from the strike was more evenly distributed through the skull instead of directly into the brain, which is what he thought had happened with the old lady.

  The idea that physics could play a role in his newfound passion was attractive to the number cruncher in him. Knowing how the body responded to trauma was a numbers game, calculating the force of his swing, the ability of the skull to safely absorb the blow, delivering trauma, but not death. It was all fascinating—he had filled notebooks with research and calculations.

  He was thinking of that when a woman’s voice from the doorway of his office in the back of Ristarante Italiano (the misspelling had become a running joke among the service staff) interrupted him.

  “Chris Jackson?”

  He looked up from his spreadsheet. The woman was dressed in a gray pantsuit. She was pretty.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Detective Bain,” she said, flashing a badge. “I’m investigating a string of assaults, and I know this might be frightening, but you have been listed as a person of interest.”

  He blinked a few times as the words jumbled and collided in his head, none joining into a cohesive sentence until a couple of seconds later. “Person of interest? Me? Assaults?”

  “Yes, Mr. Jackson,” she said patiently. “I have a warrant here for a sample of your DNA and an injunction forbidding you from leaving the city while you are still a person of interest. I suggest you read them both, and possibly consult with an attorney. You are not under arrest. I’m simply going to collect a swab from the inside of your cheek and then hand you your copies of the documents. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I’m not under arrest,” he said dreamily. “And I can’t leave the city. Forgive me, but this has to be a joke or a mistake of some kind. Are you sure you want me?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say anything more,” she said. “Do you have anything you want to say to me?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “What am I being accused of?”

  “You’re not being accused of anything,” she said. “If you were, you’d be under arrest. We are simply tracking down a great number of possibilities, and that happens to include you. We’re just trying to eliminate you.”

  “What assaults?”

  “A woman and two men who were hit in the head in their homes,” she said. Bain had hoped to avoid getting into specifics, because Lipscomb had told her Chris Jackson was the kind of guy who might panic and run. “We’re just going to run your DNA against a database.”

  “Can I look at the warrant?”

  “Sure.”

  Bain handed him the DNA warrant, which had specifics about the crimes, but those details were buried and she hoped he wouldn’t read them carefully and get crazy. He was either speed-reading or just giving the documents a cursory glance. That was good. As he pretended to read the warrant, Bain dialed a number on her phone.

  “Send the EMT in,” she said quietly into the phone. In a few seconds, a man wearing mostly white, hands covered in rubber gloves, entered the room carrying a plastic vial and a paper container with a picture of two cotton swabs printed on the front.

  “My name is Nathan,” the man said. “I’m just going to wipe a cotton swab on the inside of each cheek. You won’t even feel it.”

  “Okay,” Chris said meekly. His mind was racing. If they knew he had committed the two assaults—and one murder—they’d just arrest him, wouldn’t they? He tried to think. Had he left DNA behind at any of the scenes? He didn’t think so. How had his name even come up? The EMT had lied. It wasn’t painful, but he definitely felt the swabs. His cheeks felt dry. In fact, his whole mouth was starting to feel dry.

  “It probably won’t be very long until we eliminate you
from our list,” Bain said. “But until then, you must stay in the city. If you have to reschedule any trips you had planned, we can help you get refunds.”

  “I don’t have any trips planned,” he said. “Do I need to answer any questions or anything?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “If, for some reason, we can’t eliminate you from the list, we will want to talk to you then.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  After the detective left, Chris waited five minutes, then he ran out to his car. He didn’t notice as a silver Honda Accord pulled out behind him. As he turned onto his street, he also didn’t notice the Accord continue on, failing to make the turn. He also didn’t notice the Dodge minivan pull in after the turn. As he pulled into his driveway, he didn’t notice the minivan drive down two houses and pull over, parking on the street.

  As soon as he hit the door, Chris raced to his computer and started deleting emails. “Shit!” he shouted. “Shit!” What else? What else could implicate him? The tire thumper. “Shit!”

  He ran to the bedroom and fished the tire thumper from under the bed. He had grown so fond of this thumper, with the dents and chips from each hit it had inflicted. He loved its lead-enhanced weight in his hand. When he ran out to the curb and tossed it into the bright blue trash container, he didn’t notice the man in sweatpants and a t-shirt run over to the can after he returned back inside. He didn’t notice the man fish the thumper out of the can and run back to the minivan.

  The man in the minivan immediately picked up a cell phone. Twenty-five minutes later, Bain and two marked police cars pulled up in front of Chris’ house. He also didn’t notice that, becoming aware of their presence only after Bain knocked on the door and he opened it to see her and two cops in uniform behind her.

  “Mr. Jackson, I’m here to arrest you on two counts of aggravated assault with a dangerous weapon and one count of capital murder,” she said calmly. “You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to waive that right, anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to secure an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as I have presented them to you?”

  “DNA is that fast?”

  “Sir, I can’t answer any questions until you acknowledge that you understand your rights.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Why arrest me now? Why not at the restaurant?”

  “At the restaurant, you hadn’t tried to dispose of the murder weapon,” she said. “Do you want to make a statement?”

  One uniform officer had begun handcuffing him.

  “Let me think about that,” he said.

  The officers led him to a squad car and tucked him into the back. Bain called in for CSI investigators and a camera crew to come to Chris’ house.

  24

  MOST PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW COMPUTERS WORK. THAT misunderstanding made Frank Jansen’s job incredibly productive. When something is “saved” on a computer, the computer sends the information to a spinning disc, where a magnetic head spurts out the information in short bursts onto the disc. One piece of information can be spread out over thousands of places on the disc. To keep track of where all those bits of information are, the computer keeps a table of addresses to reassemble the information. When someone hits “delete” for that information, only the address information is deleted. The actual information stays on the disc until new information is recorded over it.

  People like Frank Jansen can find that information and reassemble it. As he worked on Chris Jackson’s computer, he had a head start. The first thing he did was pull up Chris’ recently used apps. Email was the most recent, and since Chris had just come home after finding out the police were after him, chances were he was deleting emails. Now all Frank had to do was search the computer for deleted emails. He might not even have to get into the hard drive to do it, since “deleting” emails usually just moves them from the inbox to a “trash” directory, where they remain for some time. The computer may forget where they are, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone.

  Frank chewed on a Jack Links jerky as he dug through the drive’s directory tree, looking for bits of files unassigned to addresses. In the background, Metallica sang about a bell tolling. Next to his keyboard, expansion boards, three disembodied hard drives, and a USB memory stick patiently pined for his attention. Various bits of detritus—tiny screws, bits of wire, broken pieces of emerald green circuit board—littered the office beneath his six screens. The two on the far left were blurry lines of binary—ones and zeroes—whizzing by as the computer worked to find lost or hidden bits of information on Chris Jackson’s hard drive. The binary was completely unnecessary, but it impressed the hell out of any random Muggles who wandered into his office.

  The other four screens were filled with more user-friendly, graphical fare, still arcane to the uninitiated. Obscurity and complication were job security for the technical-minded, and Frank had no problems perpetuating the mythology. Even testifying—as he often was called upon to do—he was master of the art of maintaining the fog of complexity through which most saw anything deeper than the point-and-click interfaces of their computers.

  The fact was, computers were intensely simple beasts. Getting to what he wanted was just a matter of digging through the spurious glitter required to make average people feel comfortable using computers. Tossing all that aside, computers were simply parrots, repeating what they were told. Like a parrot, sometimes a computer repeated things its owner later wished it had never heard, like the off-key caterwauling of a popular song, an f-bomb, or, as in this case, an email, mostly still lost, yet enough there to make it out:

  … ire: target is Richard Turner, 3744 Valhalla. Payment is agreed. Do not k … nl … nd as we dis … the picture attached first.

  Currently, Frank’s servers were churning their big brains on methodical attempts to find the rest of that email and its attachment—and especially the headers that contained its sender’s email address.

  “You have something for me?”

  Bain stood in his doorway, looking as hot and as unapproachable as ever. She was cordial enough, but her body language seemed fluently effortless in its vehement “you have no chance” vibe. The hot ones always seemed to have that air down pat.

  “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible, knowing it probably came off as it usually did—condescending and put off. “Your guy was hired by someone to clock one of your victims.”

  Seeing Bain hesitate, her eyes fluttering—even for a split second—was gratifying. It was clear he had just told her something she hadn’t even considered.

  “Hired? Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” he said, pointing to his bottom middle screen, where the text of the partial email stood out in white-on-black glory. “He erased the email, but I recovered part of it, and I’m pretty confident I’ll get the rest soon.”

  Bain rushed up behind his chair, her sweet scent following her presence by a second. He could lean his head back and touch her breasts with it, but if her reputation was to be believed, that might lead to a dislocated shoulder or bruised nut sack, so he’d just have to keep that idea mental.

  “Where?” she said, leaning in.

  “There,” he replied, pointing to the bottom middle screen.

  “Huh,” she said absently as she read the email. “Can you tell who sent it?”

  “Working on that,” he said. “He had a bunch of porn on here—nothing illegal—but if he downloaded any recently, it might have erased some of what we need for the email. I’m going to find everything, though.”

  “Can you print what you have?”

  “It’s coming out of the printer to your left,” he replied. “Won’t be admissible yet.”

  “I’m not looking to use it as evidence yet,” she said, grabbing the paper as the printer spat it out. “Just gonna use it to get him to talk.”

  Frank shook his head as she left with the paper. The guy was
in jail; why not wait a few minutes and get as much of the email as possible? Women.

  Bain didn’t need to wait. “Bring that Jackson douchenozzle into Interview Two,” she barked into her phone. “He hasn’t lawyered up yet, has he?”

  A negative answer made her smile.

  “Then grab him before he thinks about it,” she said, speeding up to an almost-run. “I’ll be there in two minutes!”

  Chris got there first, the uniform officer sitting him down in a wooden chair at the end of a government-style metal desk.

  “Water?” the cop asked as he leaned back in the doorway. Chris shook his head. He had seen hundreds of people cuffed on TV, but he had never imagined the cuffs would be so tight. He had worried about carpal tunnel syndrome all his life, and after this cuffing, he was sure he now had it.

  His hands were numb, and he thought it was at least possible that he could dislocate a shoulder as he leaned back on his arms. When he wasn’t thinking about the pain in his hands and arms, he was wondering obsessively how he had even ended up on the police’s radar, much less as a suspect in handcuffs. Had the bishop helped them? He probably had, but how had he been able to identify Chris? He had never met the bishop before, he was certain of it.

  His photo couldn’t have been in any lineups—he had never even been arrested before. It was a complete mystery to him how he had ended up here, and that was a Very Bad Thing. Uncertainty was the kind of thing that got people prison time. When the cops started questioning him in a few minutes, he had resolved within himself to say nothing. Unless the tire thumper still had blood on it—and he didn’t think it did—there was still a chance he could wiggle out of this long enough to get to Brazil or something.

  He tried to squeeze his fists. Nothing. He wondered if he could sue the cops for excessive force or something. He shook his wrists. Nothing.

  He was about to lean forward when the door squeaked and the she-cop came bounding through, slightly out of breath, holding a mildly crinkled piece of paper in her left hand. Behind her was a uniform cop, a dude.