Watch Him Die

by Craig Robertson

  If that was bad, the second screen was somehow worse. The green light blinking. The text from Marr creeping across the page. It sickened her but she had to talk to the man.

  How come you knew Ethan Garland’s name, but he never knew yours?

  He told me his. I didn’t tell him mine. It’s simple.

  Okay. Why did he tell you and why didn’t you tell him yours?

  Because of where we met, there was a choice to be made and he made a different one from me.

  Explain. How did you meet Garland?

  Where do any two people meet these days? Online.

  On a website? Chat room?

  Not in the sense you mean, no. Not one you’d find or would have heard of.

  Something on the dark web?

  More deep than dark. And stop fishing, I’m not telling you where it was. And it doesn’t matter. We got talking in a safe space and we found we had things in common.

  Were you talking in a place where you were likely to have things in common?

  Maybe. But some people are all talk. Ethan wasn’t, neither was I. We both knew that pretty quickly.

  When you say things in common, let’s be clear what you’re talking about.

  I think you know. You just want to hear me say it? Like it’s evidence? We thought similarly. Very similarly. I knew almost right away that he was someone like me.

  Yet you didn’t tell him who you really were?

  I knew I could be open about myself. But I still wasn’t stupid enough to trust him with everything. He was that stupid, that was his choice. I protected myself with an alias. I suspect he knew that but he never asked. That suited us both.

  So how much more did you know about him than he knew about you?

  Quite a bit. I told him some things that were true and some that weren’t. We knew all the things we needed to carry out our shared ventures. We knew each other’s tastes.

  The words soured her mouth before she typed them.

  In victims?

  Yes.

  You chose his and he chose yours?

  Within certain parameters. And we had discretion to say no thank you.

  So, you chose this guy that’s chained up?

  I found him. Ethan chose to take him.

  How you could you find him? You were five thousand miles away.

  Don’t try to play me. The internet makes the world a smaller place and you know it. The kid knew I was a voice in the ether and that was all he needed to know.

  Do you know Los Angeles?

  I know how to use Google. And I know stuff Ethan taught me. It was more than enough to bait my hook and catch me a little fishy.

  So why couldn’t Ethan have just done that himself?

  He could have, but that wasn’t our play. We had our own game.

  Want to tell me about it?

  No. You get paid to work it out. Maybe you already have.

  Maybe. So what did Ethan tell you about LA?

  He hated it. Hated the traffic and the people, hated the phonies and the freaks, the YouTubers and the wannabe celebrities, the hypocrites and the hippies. He hated LA but never went anywhere else. Thing about Ethan was he loved the Los Angeles he grew up in. He hated change. Said change always made things worse.

  What do you mean?

  Never mind. I read something once. It was by a defence lawyer, saying that everybody is more than the worst thing they’ve ever done. That’s true, right?

  I can see why you’d want it to be true.

  But it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Everyone is better than their worst?

  So, if someone once put a tenner in the poor box and helped an old lady across the road then we judge him by that rather than that he shot three people in cold blood?

  Yes. It shows his best is better than his worst.

  Best is better than worst. It’s a dictionary definition, not a way of judging a person’s character or behaviour. One decent act, even a hundred of them, is overshadowed by the worst thing a person does, if that thing is bad enough. If you have done good things in your life, and it’s to be expected you have, then you’re still going to be your worst thing. That’s what defines you.

  The silence was drawn out, but finally, fatally, punctured by his response.

  What if I haven’t done my worst thing yet?

  Chilled, Narey’s fingers rattled the keyboard.

  Then you’ll be judged by that.

  You do know I’m aware that everything you say, everything you ask, is about trying to catch me out? That you’re trying to trip me up, get some info out of me.

  You’d be pretty stupid not to.

  I’m not stupid.

  Well that’s okay then. Can we continue?

  You won’t get anything from me.

  Maybe I already have. Can we move on?

  She assumed the pause was either rage or sulking but didn’t care much which.

  Okay, ask me your question.

  How did you know that you and Garland were the same? What was it you said, that he was ‘someone like me’?

  I just knew. Things he said. The way he said them. When I told him some of the things I’ve done in my life, he didn’t react the way other people had. I’d told people before. Online, anonymously. They freaked mostly. Ethan didn’t. He was interested. And he had his own stories to tell.

  How did you know he wasn’t just full of bullshit? Trying to impress you.

  You’re not listening. It was how he said it more than what he said. It was how he felt. Only someone like me and him could know that.

  You’re ill, Matthew. Sick. You know that, right? How can you even function around normal people?

  She was pushing him and didn’t care that Dakers was signalling caution.

  I’m normal. I’m my kind of normal. I live my life and no one knows but me. I function just the same as other people when I want to. And I function like me when I want to too. That’s my trick.

  Your trick? That’s how you think of it?

  It’s just a word.

  It’s an arrogant fucking boast, is what it is. A trick? You think being a functioning psycho doesn’t make you a psycho? Being able to switch emotions on and off isn’t a party trick, it’s a mental illness.

  I’m not ill. They thought I was ill, but I wasn’t. Stupid bastards at Carstairs wasted time on me. I’m not ill. I can control myself. It’s my trick.

  Carstairs was the State Hospital. Where patients were admitted because of dangerous or violent tendencies, usually by the prison service or the court.

  When were you in Carstairs?

  Fuck you. It doesn’t matter. I’m not ill. That’s all you need to know. And all I need is to see this guy die.

  She’d happily have ripped his eyes out with her nails if she could. She ripped the plug on the conversation instead.

  You’ll see what I let you see and don’t forget it. Goodbye.

  It maybe wasn’t as much as she’d hoped for, but she’d got something from him at least. It was her trick.

  The line flashed from LA again. ‘Nice job, Rachel. You really pushed his buttons,’

  From her side, Lennie Dakers nodded in approval. ‘You got him angry enough to reveal more than he wanted to. I’m sure most, probably all, of what he told us was genuine.’

  ‘Thanks. I was worried a couple of times that I was pushing him too far. We’ll contact the State Hospital at Carstairs. See if they’ll tell us about anyone that fits his profile. They only admit around thirty patients a year. Cally, I hope that his line about Garland hating change and loving the Los Angeles that he grew up in is of some use to you.’

  ‘Already on it. We’re getting closer’

  *

  They were. Just as the young man chained in some unknown location was getting closer to death.

  CHAPTER 31

  Igloo. Messages. Vikki, 32.

  Ryan: So how long have you been on this site?

  Delivered, 12.05

  Read, 12.06

  Vikki: A
few weeks now. I’m ready to quit it to be honest. I’ve pretty much given up on thinking I’ll meet anyone decent.

  I know what you mean. This place seems to be full of crazies. Some nice people too though.

  Yes. Some.

  I hope you don’t leave though. Not yet anyway. There are some decent guys, honestly.

  You do seem nice. So tell me stuff about you.

  Okay. I’m a teacher. Primary kids. Love it. Been doing that for six years now. It’s tough at times but really worth it.

  Cool. Must be fun. Tell me more about you.

  I’m into movies, old stuff more than new stuff though. They make too much crap these days. All those superhero films.

  Agreed! So what’s your favourite movie?

  Hard to choose. But I’d say maybe Some Like It Hot.

  No way! That’s MY favourite!! I love that movie. Okay, what else?

  To Kill a Mockingbird. Bringing Up Baby. And okay, corny maybe, but It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Are you kidding me? I love those. I watch Wonderful Life EVERY Christmas. Okay, what about music?

  All kinds of stuff. Soul. Pop. Blues.

  Soul is cool. Name your top three.

  That’s tough. Nina Simone. Curtis Mayfield. Otis Redding.

  Two out of three ain’t bad. I’m not crazy about Otis. Anyone who was in the charts after I was born?

  Kendrick Lamar? Lauryn Hill?

  Yes!! This is spooky. Have you stolen my Spotify or something? You could be my music twin.

  That’s got to be a good thing, right?

  Maybe Okay, ask me about me.

  So what do you do? And what are you doing tonight? It’s Saturday after all.

  Slow down, mister! One question at a time. I work in a bank. Customer service. Been there three years. Did the same thing in another bank before that.

  Can I open an account?

  If you keep my interest.

  I plan to. How long have you been single?

  Two years. You?

  A bit over a year. About ready to dip a toe back in the water. With the right person.

  Me too, I guess. Finding the right one is the hard bit. I’m really wary. It’s easy for a guy but women have to be careful. You know? People aren’t always who they say they are on here.

  I guess that’s true. You do have to be careful. I hope you wouldn’t rule out meeting someone though.

  No.

  Good to hear.

  Okay, I need to go make lunch. We can talk again later if you’d like that.

  Oh, I would. Okay, I suppose I better let you go. Bye for now Vikki x

  Bye Ryan x

  CHAPTER 32

  The decision to release two photographs of the kidnap victim was taken way above the heads of Salgado and O’Neill. Their lieutenant, Annie Burns, told them it had got as far as one of the deputy chiefs before anyone had the cojones to make a call in the time needed. Adam Berkovic was the one who finally put his on the line and said that, quite simply, they had no choice. They did it or the man died.

  Few doubted that he was right, but the chaos was inevitable, immediate and sensationalist. A kidnap victim is always grist to the media mill, and they didn’t waste the opportunity to scare the shit out of viewers, readers and listeners. Every news station in southern California led with it, every newspaper in the state splashed it. The photographs, poor quality but enhanced as much as technology would allow, were in front of eyes from Crescent City to San Diego.

  The department had said as little as they could. They wanted the public’s help in identifying the young man in the pictures. They were concerned for his welfare. It was a matter of great urgency. All calls would be treated in confidence.

  It was never going to be enough and they knew it. It was like throwing a lamb to a pack of wolves and telling them they could play with it for an hour.

  Who is he? Where is he? How did you get the photographs? Who set up the video? What are you doing to try to find him? Is the public in danger? When will he die? When will he die?

  If the mainstream media were wolves then their online counterparts were dragons and vampires. Conspiracy theories were rampant and instant. The photograph was a fake; the man was already dead; it was the “real” movie star who’d been replaced by a lookalike; it was a scam by the cops to flush out patriots; the man had been kidnapped by aliens, democrats, Russians and Muslims.

  Once unleashed, none of it could never be reined in again.

  The photographs were two of the few shots they had of the man awake and looking at the camera. His suffering and failing health were all too obvious and they were inundated with complaints that they were too distressing and should never have been released. Many of the ardent objectors seemed more bothered about the release of the photograph than of the man.

  Salgado and O’Neill were cussing the whole circus when the call came through. It had been less than an hour since the photograph was made public. A shout from the other side of the incident room, urging one of them to pick up the phone immediately. O’Neill took the call.

  ‘LAPD, Detective—’

  Salgado could hear the rapid, urgent voice leaking from the receiver. O’Neill wasn’t getting a word in.

  ‘Slow down, ma’am. Please.’ She nodded at Salgado to let him know they were on. ‘You’re sure it’s your son?’

  It wasn’t. In the next three hours, their kidnap victim was Paul Weiss, Aaron Hope, Bradley Jansen, Fred van der Hoorn, Jack Arnold, Ricky Lessing, Michael James Green, Cody Welsh and Justin Greenhaugh. He was also a dozen other young men whose names never got as far as Salgado and O’Neill. But they kept coming.

  ‘LAPD, Detective Salgado speaking.’

  No one spoke but Salgado knew the line was live. He could hear someone breathing nervously.

  ‘LAPD, can I help you?’

  ‘The photographs. On TV and online. I know who they are.’

  Okay, this time. Salgado thought. Make it this time. The voice was female, frantic and certain.

  ‘Okay, ma’am. Can you give me some details, please? Who do you believe the man in the photograph is?’

  ‘I don’t believe. I know. It’s my son. Dylan Hansen. It’s Dylan.’

  She was crying, and the words were choking her.

  ‘Okay, who am I talking to?’

  ‘Steph Hansen. My name is Steph Hansen. My phone number is 213-637-9242. I am Dylan’s mother and I know that’s him in those photographs. But I don’t understand. How can he be there? Who did this?’

  ‘We’re working on that, Mrs Hansen. I’m going to need some information from you though. Tell me about Dylan, when you last saw him, when he was reported missing.’

  She was still in tears. ‘He’s not been reported missing. I didn’t think he was missing. I’d texted him three times but when he didn’t reply, I left it. Dylan drops out for a few days now and again. I didn’t think that much of it. Now I . . . now I’m scared he couldn’t reply.’

  ‘Tell me about him. What does he do? What’s his address? When did you last see him?’

  ‘He’s – he’s a script reader. For the movies. He works for himself, reading scripts that the studios send him. He’s got a major in film. He lives in Glendale, 900 East Lomita Avenue. I last saw him six days ago. I kept expecting him to call or text but he didn’t. So, I texted him. Three times.’

  ‘We’re going to need a photograph of Dylan to—’

  ‘I’ve emailed some. To the hotline address. You already have them. It’s Dylan. I know the shirt he’s wearing in the photograph. I bought it for him. It’s him.’

  Salgado cupped his hand over the phone and told O’Neill to check the email. He watched as she did so, hearing the woman sobbing on the other side of the line and not being quite sure if he wanted it to be Dylan Hansen or not.

  She was telling him how it wasn’t completely unusual for Dylan not to answer a text but that three was . . . He stopped listening as he saw O’Neill turn to face him, her mouth open until she composed hers
elf enough to close it. ‘I think it’s him.’

  An email alert popped up in front of Salgado and he clicked through it until there was a photograph filling the screen. Shit.

  ‘Mrs Hansen, where are you? We’re coming right over.’

  CHAPTER 33

  The State Hospital at Carstairs was Scotland’s highest security psychiatric hospital and a byword for the highly dangerous and mentally ill.

  It was probably the most feared and misunderstood institution in the country. Even its location added to its fearsome mystique, hidden away on a windswept moor and far from the public gaze. It housed those deemed too dangerous for even a high-security prison – murderers, rapists and child killers – those who needed two members of staff for every prisoner, those who needed to be sedated just to keep others around them safe.

  This was the environment that, seemingly, Matthew Marr had once been held in. This was the building that housed him and let him go. Except that they hadn’t had Marr, not by name at least.

  Narey was there to meet Andrea Wallace, the hospital’s chief executive. No promises had been made but enough encouragement had been given for her to make the forty-minute drive south-east from Glasgow. Carstairs had procedures to follow and confidences to keep, but Wallace said she’d do what she could.

  The drive across the moor had been in ever-falling darkness, and the nearer Narey got the more the gloom enveloped her, and the greater the sense of foreboding. It was only when she approached the perimeter that she was able to see the razor-wire fencing and then, finally, the largely anonymous but fortified entrance. The sole sign outside said little but said everything. The State Hospital.

  She negotiated security at the gatehouse and waited while a massive green gate slid back to let her drive inside. Perhaps surprisingly, she’d never had the need to visit, and that probably explained the first-time nerves that she was acutely aware of.

  A guard escorted her to a waiting area, saying that the chief executive would be with her shortly. Wallace had finished for the day but had agreed to wait behind to meet her, given the urgency of the situation.

  Narey spent the wait idly trying to remember if any of the men or women she’d helped put away had ended up in here rather in mainstream prisons. The shimmering line between the dangerous and the criminally insane was a distinction she was glad she didn’t have to make.