Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

  “Jenny,” said Deb. “Is it alright if we go exploring?”

  Her aunt barely looked up. “Sure, honey. Y’all go on. But be good. Be back by 11:00.”

  One of the great things about a cruise ship is that teenagers can go off on their own, alone, in relative safety.

  For the balance of the trip, Susie and Deb settled into a routine. They met for breakfast at 10:00. Laid about the pool until 2:00. Had a light snack around 4:00. Dinner at 7:00. And they said goodnight at 11:00.

  When she thought back on the cruise later, most of the trip was a blur to Susie. She couldn’t recall what they’d talked about. Or how they’d occupied so much time. It seemed to her, when she told me about it, that the three groups—her family, the Wests, and Jenny, Deb, and Stan—were the only people on the cruise ship.

  Susie remembered seeing her parents and the Wests periodically. She remembered her brother and the West boys playing in the pool, and recalled one ill-advised attempt by the boys to hang out with the girls—which Deb had brutally shut down. She remembered Aunt Jenny and Stan appearing and disappearing at various times. All of them were like extras in a play.

  But she couldn’t recall any crew members, other families, or other children. Not specifically. They were there in her memory like a backdrop, pieces of furniture on a stage.

  The whole trip was book-ended by the first day, when Deb found Susie, and the last day—the evening, really—which they’d spent saying goodbye.

  Susie had just finished getting ready for dinner and was leaving her cabin when she saw Deb coming down the hall with a large macramé pool bag and a blue and white striped beach towel.

  “Come on, girl. Change of plans. Follow me.”

  Deb led her down passages, stairs, and then through a door marked Crew Only. They continued down hallways and more stairs, deeper into the bowels of the ship.

  Finally, Deb opened a door into what appeared to be a part of the crew quarters. There were two bunks on one wall, a sink under a medicine cabinet on the opposite wall, and a chair tucked under a small desk. The floor was wall-to-wall carpeting—mainly blue with an ugly, repetitive wave pattern in beige.

  They sat down on the floor, and Deb took out a bottle of white wine. Twist-off, no cork. She opened it and took a swig, then handed the bottle to Susie, who did the same. The wine had lost its chill, though it was still slightly cooler than room temperature. To Susie, it tasted thick and sweet… too sweet, actually.

  They talked until the bottle of wine was empty. Then, Deb reached into her bag of tricks and pulled out two cans of warm beer and handed one to her friend.

  “You hungry?” she asked, producing a jar of nuts, a bag of crackers, a chocolate bar, and some Doritos. “I’ve been raiding the mini-bar. A little every day so Aunt Jen doesn’t freak out. This stuff is wicked expensive!”

  They chatted, and snacked, and sipped beer. They laughed about how Aunt Jenny acted around Stan, and joked about Ben West and how immature he was, and how immature all boys their age were. To Susie, it felt like they had talked about everything.

  Almost everything. There was one topic they hadn’t discussed.

  The way Susie remembered it, one moment they were talking and laughing, and the next she realized that there were tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “Susie. Dude, what’s the deal?” asked Deb, concerned. “You’re killing my buzz.”

  Susie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then sniffed, and sipped from her beer.

  “You alright?”

  “Yeah. Fine” Susie replied. “It’s nothing.”

  Deb reached into the bag and pulled out another beer while watching Susie closely. “Last one,” she said, opening the tab. “Split it?”

  Susie said nothing. She could hear distant voices from the corridor. Then, closer, the sound of a stomach gurgling. She wasn’t sure if it was hers or Deb’s, but she instinctively put a hand on her belly and noticed that it was shaking slightly.

  Susie looked down at her hand, hesitated, and then took a slow, deep breath and without looking up, asked, “Do you ever think about me?”

  Deb turned to her, smiling sweetly. She reached out and gently lifted Susie’s chin.

  As Susie looked into Deb’s eyes, her belly fluttered. Deb leaned into her, slowly. Susie felt at ease, calm, and then pulled back, suddenly, surprised when she realized that Deb was going to kiss her.

  Susie crossed her arms defensively, sitting back, and looked down and away, and said, “Sorry, Deb. It’s just... I’m not... ” Susie took a deep breath and looked up, apologetically.

  Deb leaned in again.

  Susie told me that Deb’s mouth tasted of Doritos and beer. She remembered Deb’s hands on her. Gentle at first, then rougher, urgent. She remembered the weight of Deb’s body on hers. The warmth of her skin. The sounds they made from pleasure, then giggling and shushing each other for fear that someone would hear, until they no longer cared, their passion burning hotter than the fear of being discovered. She remembered the bliss of release, something she had never experienced before—not like that. And, afterward, she remembered lying for what seemed like hours in Deb’s arms.

  It was almost midnight when they quietly tidied up the room and then sat, holding hands, knowing that goodbye was all that was left.

  Susie began to cry again, and Deb held her in her arms and kissed her hair. Then, Deb pulled out a Velcro wallet and said, “I want to give you something.”

  She carefully unfolded a small photograph—a 3 x 5 print, creased vertically and horizontally, a thin white cross running through the image—and handed it to Susie.

  Two little girls, suntanned and smiling. Two friends with their arms on each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.

  “This is amazing,” Susie said.

  “I thought you’d like it.” Deb smiled, satisfied. “Hey, who knows you best?”

  “Deb does,” murmured Susie, studying the photo.

  She remembered. She remembered the moment the picture had been taken. So long ago now. So much had happened since.

  They’d been so much younger.

  Still just girls.

  Innocent little girls.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Susie felt satisfied that she had overcome the initial hurdle of convincing Roy to plan Joe Harlan Jr.’s demise. And, once I understood her connection to Deb, I could understand why she was focused on killing Harlan.

  But Roy still wasn’t ready. He still wanted proof that Harlan had done what he’d been accused of.

  After returning from their boat ride, Susie and Roy convened in Roy’s study to discuss next steps.

  “First, let’s talk process. So, up to this point,” he said, “I’ve only done generalized research on murder and conviction rates in the U.S., and I went to a college bookstore and bought a book on murder investigation—cash. I call it the PHI,” he said, indicating the book. “All pretty innocuous. Not traceable.

  “But, whatever else we do from now on in terms of planning, research, et cetera, we have to assume it can all be traced. In case we should ever come under suspicion, we need to make sure we leave nothing behind that indicates any connection to Harlan or Kristy Wise or their whole situation. I have some tech ideas to help us achieve that.

  “First, I’ve already turned off all location services on my phone. So, I can’t be tracked. Here, give me yours,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Susie obediently handed her phone over, and her husband instantly and somewhat expertly began manipulating the screen.

  While he did, Susie said, “And if we’re going to do any online research, we should use my old burner laptop, right?”

  “Huh?” Roy looked up.

  “My burner. That piece of shit Chromebook I have. I started using it back when I was investigating the Gang of Seven. Why do you think they could never
get at my research files? It wasn’t for the lack of trying... ” She winked at him.

  Roy looked dumbfounded. “I’ve heard of burner phones. But a laptop... What makes it a burner?”

  “Some simple stuff, and some modifications,” she said. “For example, I’ve never loaded any email accounts on it, so it can’t receive any attachments from outside sources. It hasn’t been out of my sight since I bought it—except when it’s locked in the safe—so no one could plant anything on it. You know, malware, spyware. Same for travel—never traveled with it, so it hasn’t been through ‘security checks’ or left my sight long enough for anyone to plant anything on it.”

  “Okay.”

  Susie continued, “Then, I replaced the Chrome operating system with Arch Linux open source and added some security software that gives me more control over boot-up, so I can keep a lookout for the usual off-the-shelf spyware. I also opened it up and pulled the little pin off the SPI flash chip; that’s where BIOS sits.”

  Roy frowned at her.

  “You know,” she continued, “the code that’s underneath the operating system? Pulling off the pin makes the chip read-only so that no one can mess with my files. And then, just to be sure, I put super glue in all the USB ports, but not the power port obviously. Then, I downloaded TOR.”

  “Tor?”

  “Yeah. TOR. The Onion Router. It’s a browser, like Safari or Firefox, but it masks your IP address. Lots of people use it, journalists, activists, people who want to keep their identity secret. You know—dark web amateurs, online drug buyers, and so on. But, you have to be careful with it ‘cause, well... because of its very nature, the government likes to track it. So, I do all my research via open Wi-Fi at different coffee shops. And I’m on no more than sixty minutes at any one location. And never at home.”

  “Fuck, Suze... ”

  “What?” She shrugged. “You can never be too careful. You said it. Besides,” she added, looking up at the ceiling as she whispered with a wink, “Big Brother is watching.”

  “Okay. So…” He picked up a large, expandable Redweld folder a bit anticlimactically. “I have labeled this folder Landscaping,” he said, pointing to the word he had written on the file. “Anything we do in writing, and there should be very little, goes in here.”

  He held the folder open, showing that it contained no more than ten sheets of paper. “My notes from the PHI and the plan.”

  Susie nodded.

  “When we’re not using it, it goes in the safe.”

  “Okay,” Susie said. “But I assume we’ll need to do a lot of online research, and if we want to be efficient, then— ”

  “Can you make me another burner?”

  Susie smiled. “I tell you what. You take mine and get started. I’ll go buy another laptop and get it set up. Takes a few hours,” she said.

  “Okay. Sounds like a plan. I thought we’d divide up the work into two parts. One of us needs to do what the PHI calls victimology. When someone is killed, the homicide detective comes up with a deep-dive bio of the victim—any and all information that could be relevant to the case. Look. Like this.” He handed her the PHI opened to page 21. She read.

  Victimology is the collection and assessment of all significant information as it relates to the victim and his or her lifestyle. Personality, employment, education, friends, habits, hobbies, marital status, relationships, dating history, sexuality, reputation, criminal record, history of alcohol or drugs, physical condition, and neighborhood of residence are all pieces of the mosaic that makes up victimology. The bottom line is: Who was the victim and what was going on in his or her life at the time of the event?

  “I figure we should do this now, so we know what we’re up against, and to make sure there isn’t something we don’t know about Harlan that might bite us in the ass. We should know as much about him as anyone would investigating his murder. Or at least as much as can be learned from public sources.”

  “Sounds smart,” Susie answered. “What’s the other part?”

  “Guilt. Someone needs to research the actual crime—the rape. We need to know what happened and be sure that we believe he deserves what we’re preparing for him. We need to make damned sure that this guy did it, at least as much as humanly possible.”

  “Okay. Which do you want?” Susie asked.

  “I don’t care,” Roy said.

  “Flip you for it? Winner gets victimology. I’ll take heads.”

  Roy dug a coin out of his desk drawer and flipped. It landed on the rug heads-up.

  “Okay then,” he said. “Give me your burner and I’ll get started while you go shopping.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  With Roy out of the house, Susie returned the Landscaping folder to the safe. It was a good-sized safe—a Fort Knox Legend 7261 Vault. Roy had had it installed when they’d bought the house. It stood 6’ tall and 5’ wide. The interior was custom finished so that there was space for important documents, some jewelry, and two locked drawers—one for him and one for her.

  Susie had always thought it ironic that they owned such a large gun safe but only kept one weapon in it—a small handgun, a Glock 26 subcompact.

  When they’d moved to Miami, Roy had been concerned about crime in the city. So, he’d bought the gun and attended a concealed handgun course. He’d asked Susie to do the same. For the first two months in the city, he carried the gun pretty much everywhere. After that, it remained locked in the safe and—to Susie’s knowledge—hadn’t been moved since.

  Now, as she was about to lock the safe door, she paused to open the file and have a look inside.

  LANDSCAPING FOLDER – FIRST DOCUMENT

  (Roy’s handwritten notes)

  ROY’S RULES FOR MURDER

  (Page One)

  1. THE KILLER SHOULD HAVE NO DISCERNIBLE MOTIVE.

  1.1 Human nature seeks cause and effect. If the killer is in no way connected to the victim, the investigator will be stymied. Murder is one of the worst crimes. To go to that extreme, the killer needs a good reason. But this reason more than often only need be as good as the killer’s moral compass since there are people who will kill for $20. (They are the idiots.)

  1.2 “Life is cheap.” Literally. If the downside for killing is outweighed by the upside.

  1.3 The more you have to lose, the greater justification or motivation you need.

  1.4 To kill successfully, you should not “need” anything that the victim has.

  1.5 You should not have any reason to want the victim dead.

  1.6 You should have nothing to gain from the victim’s death.

  1.7 Think self-interest. Think capitalism. People only do things if they gain from them. People are motivated by self-interest. If the killer has nothing to gain from killing the victim, why would he do it? Why take so much risk? It makes no sense.

  1.8 The typical investigator will look for reasons that someone would want the victim dead.

  1.9 The typical investigator will often work to cobble together reasons for killing the victim.

  1.10 Investigators are programmed to believe that all crimes require motive and opportunity. (If one can eliminate—or obfuscate—one’s motive, one will cease to be a suspect).

  1.11 The perfect murder is completely random. (Randomness is the kryptonite of the homicide detective).

  2. THE KILLER SHOULD LEAVE NO FORENSIC EVIDENCE.

  2.1 If there is no motive, then only physical clues remain (along with witnesses—see item 4 below).

  2.2 According to PHI, a critical element in establishing culpability is Locard’s Principle, which states:

  2.2.1 The perpetrator will take away traces of the victim and the scene.

  2.2.2 The victim will retain traces of the perpetrator and may leave traces of him or herself on the perpetrator.

  2.2.3 The perpetrator will leave traces of him
or herself at the scene.

  2.2.4 A successful murderer will leave no forensic evidence for the homicide detective. Nothing at the scene. Nothing on the victim. Nothing on himself.

  2.2.5 In a perfect murder, there is no crime scene. (No crime scene = no forensic evidence.)

  2.2.6 Always remember that forensic evidence comes in many forms. Patterns of activity can be evidence. As can deviation from patterns. Just as randomness in victim selection is kryptonite to the investigator, so is randomness of behavior.

  Leave NO SINGING BONES.

  (Page Two)

  3. THE KILLER SHOULD LEAVE NO BODY.

  3.1 No body = no forensic evidence.

  3.2 No body = no proof of death.

  3.3 Without a body, all you have is a missing person. The longer it takes for investigators to shift from a missing persons investigation to a homicide investigation, the better. Any forensic evidence that exists will age. Witnesses’ memories will become duller and more easily confused.

  3.4 Eliminate the body. Mobsters know this. They bury bodies in building foundations. Cement shoes. Etc.

  4. THERE SHOULD BE NO WITNESSES TYING THE KILLER TO THE VICTIM.

  4.1 This is simply a restatement of the above points, but instead of forensic or circumstantial ties, this rule focuses on human ties.

  4.2 The history of “justice” and the legal system has been built around how to deal with “eyewitness” testimony. Any good murder plan minimizes the possibility of eyewitnesses.

  4.3 It is likely that, in getting the victim to a suitable location for elimination, potential witnesses may be encountered. Every effort should be made to make the victim, the killer, and the circumstances of any interaction witnessed as forgettable as possible.

  4.4 Seek out crowded places. Better at night. Better where potential witnesses are drinking or under the influence of drugs. Obviously, avoid security cameras and CCTV.

  5. THE KILLER SHOULD HAVE AN ALIBI PLACING HIM SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN AT THE CRIME SCENE.