The room rumbled with speculative conversations, which Sam ignored. As soon as he reached the front, Hatcher waved him forward impatiently.
“We’ve been hacked,” said Jordan Berkowitz. The young man’s eyes were bright with excitement. “I think I caught it in time, but it was brilliant. He must have—”
“Show him,” Hatcher growled.
Jordan knelt by the chair, moved the cursor over the update box in the corner, and looked up at the large screen. Dozens of textboxes popped up then blinked out. Jordan typed something into the keyboard and one of the textboxes enlarged to fill the screen. Large, bold letters glared out from a white background.
Sam now understood why he’d been plucked from the pack of agents filling the room.
To Special Agent Samuel Henry Kerman:
Back off. I will destroy the unworthy. In ones, twos,
and threes, they will die because you fail. You can’t
stop me, but you will fear me.
Let the games begin.
Hand of God
Hatcher quelled a surge of murmurs by raising his hands for silence.
“The tech people will be inspecting every device in the building. In the meantime, don’t open or update anything on either your work or home devices. That goes for cell phones and electronic notebooks too. If it’s been linked to our servers, it needs to be looked at.”
Several cries of dismay filled the room.
“How long will that take?” a male voice demanded.
Sam couldn’t see the speaker.
“As long as it takes.”
Groans met Hatcher’s answer.
“What happened?” asked Agent Okiro. The dark-skinned woman stood half a head taller than the four people standing near her.
Hatcher waved for Jordan to answer the question.
“The hacker inserted a program within a code that made it look like a routine update. When I clicked on it, the virus replicated itself as fast as it could and tried to send copies to other devices through the Wi-Fi. I think I caught it, but my team will need to check your devices to be sure. Don’t want to let this thing loose.”
“Why?” asked Sam. “What makes it dangerous?”
“Normally, it’d just be a nuisance,” said Jordan. “It’s an infinity virus with a simple message that replicates and deletes the versions of itself that are three to four generations old. That’s why the boxes appear and disappear. Confined to one device, I could isolate and kill it, but this baby’s been modified so it can hop to different devices through the internet. It’s really a beautiful program.”
Hatcher’s glare wiped the smile off of Jordan’s face. He straightened and excused himself to organize the sweep to clean any infected devices.
Sam added “tech savvy” and “arrogant” to his paltry profile for the killer. He supposed the killer could have hired someone to create and release the virus, but to even make such a purchase, he would have to be able to navigate the Dark Web. A friend working vice had once tried to tell Sam how to access the series of forums and websites that offered everything from information on bomb making to a marketplace for illicit drugs. Sam’s conversation takeaway had been that it took some hacking skills to access the Dark Web.
“Kerman, I want to see you in my office in ten minutes.” Eye contact added gravity to Hatcher’s statement. “We need to discuss this.”
Sam wanted to protest. He felt like a kid being unjustly hauled into the principal’s office. His mind churned with possible defenses he could raise to whatever Hatcher said. This was the biggest case of Sam’s career. He didn’t want to get pulled off it because the killer had called him out by name. The message moved the contest to a far more personal plane.
I accept the challenge. Sam thought at the killer. You slip up once and you’re mine.
Chapter 12:
Media Primer
FBI Field Office
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Roughly ten minutes later, Dawn Hopper told Sam he could enter the inner sanctum. The meeting’s uncharacteristic promptness reinforced the urgency Sam had seen in his boss’s eyes. He closed the door as he entered, assuming this would be a private meeting. Two steps into the room, he realized they weren’t alone.
Adana Okiro rose gracefully as Sam approached. They exchanged cordial nods. For the first time, Sam noticed the woman might be an inch taller than him. He wasn’t used to looking up to meet people’s eyes, especially women. Despite being cubicle neighbors, he hardly knew her, though he vaguely recalled she worked with people. He couldn’t remember in what capacity.
“I trust you two know each other,” said Special Agent in Charge Louis Hatcher. He waved them into seats then settled onto his office chair again. “But you may not know why I’ve summoned you.”
Sam and Adana nodded agreement with this assessment.
Their boss leveled a gaze first at Adana, then at Sam, before splitting a second stare evenly between them.
“Kerman has point on the park killer, and Okiro’s here to give you a media primer. You can use the conference room next to my office, but I want this done right now. As soon as the media gets wind we’ve been hacked, they’re going to swarm. I want a formal statement prepped by then, and you’d better both be ready to field questions in a press conference.”
Sam nearly sagged in relief. He wouldn’t need to fight to stay on the case.
As if sensing his newfound comfort, Hatcher’s eyes fixed on Sam like heat-seeking missiles.
“Pay attention to what she has to say, Kerman. I can’t stress enough the importance of getting the PR part of this right. You say the wrong thing and lawyers will be lining up to file suits against the Bureau. If that happens, I will not be happy.” The last statement came out slower than the rest, and Hatcher’s eyes narrowed to slits. He looked like a reptile ready to swallow a squirming lunch.
“Yes, sir,” said Sam, working hard to keep the relief from bleeding onto his face. “I will.”
Hatcher sighed, sat back, and allowed his eyes to return to normal. His expression turned imploring.
“Kerman, I don’t have to read minds to know what you’re feeling. I was you some time ago: young, undefeated, confident. But this isn’t the movies. Not every killer gets caught. So far, the reports I have on you are decent. I’m told you have a level head, but at the end of the day, you need to remember this is a job, not the sum total of your life.” Thus far, Hatcher’s tone had been decidedly sympathetic, but it hardened as he uttered one more warning. “Do not under any circumstances let this guy inside your head.”
Sam acknowledged the warning solemnly. To do anything more or less would simply invite a longer lecture.
After a final, brief staring contest, Hatcher released Sam and Adana to the small conference room budding off of this one.
“I leave him in your hands, Agent Okiro,” said Hatcher, as they each stood.
Since she was already closer to the side office, Adana entered first. Although much smaller than Hatcher’s main office, this room contained a large office chair, a full-sized desk, and two interview chairs.
“Please have a seat,” Adana said. She sat on the left guest chair and nodded for Sam to take the other one.
He did so, feeling her dark, hawk-like eyes follow his every move.
“Relax your shoulders, but sit up straighter,” Adana instructed.
Sam tried to follow the directions by pulling his shoulders back, but he figured something was wrong when she shook her head. Standing, Adana came over and gently pressed down on his shoulders, lowering them just a hair.
“First lesson: body language speaks volumes,” said Adana. As she spoke, the woman straightened her shoulders and gestured with both hands in a rolling motion to emphasize her last words. Her chin rose slightly but her lips remained close together. After maintaining the pose for a few seconds, she smiled. Her eyes roamed his face freely, cool and professional. She nodded as if coming to a conclusion. “I can work with this.”
The comment brought an amused grin to Sam’s face.
“Good. Don’t underestimate the power of a smile, but keep it small and pleasant. Too much and they’ll sense you’re trying too hard.” Adana reached out and adjusted Sam’s tie. “Keep the tie perfectly centered, but if it shifts, let it. Adjusting it during an interview is bad form and a sign of insecurity.”
“What should I do with my hands?” Sam wondered. His had started to sweat thanks to the intensity of Adana’s scrutiny.
“Keep them open and rest them in your lap if you’re not using them, but feel free to enhance your statements with gestures as necessary,” she answered. Returning to her seat, Adana sat and studied Sam’s current posture. “Lean forward when delivering an important statement. It indicates interest and emphasis.”
Sam did his best to obey the directions.
Adana made a few minor adjustments then nodded satisfaction that his body language would convey the right messages in an interview.
“Second lesson: avoid issuing or answering challenges. You can promise the Bureau will do its utmost to apprehend the perpetrator, but keep ego and bravado out of it.”
Sam bobbed his head. Hatcher’s words from before still rang in his ears.
“Besides the legal reasons the SAC mentioned, there are personal risks to issuing or answering challenges. He briefly discussed this.”
“What happened to him?” Sam asked the question softly, aware of how much he didn’t know about his boss.
“I don’t know every detail, but I gather he didn’t take the advice he gave to you,” Adana said. “It’s easy to make high profile cases personal crusades, but they’re not solved overnight. Be prepared to follow every lead wherever it goes, but don’t be too disappointed if the trail runs cold. These things happen.”
Sam disagreed and shook his head vigorously to show it.
“I know this guy’s been quiet for a while, but he’s not going to wait too much longer,” Sam insisted. “He’s addicted.”
Adana weighed the statement before reluctantly nodding agreement.
“Keep that opinion to yourself if anybody asks,” she advised. “We don’t want to spark wrongful death suits if there are future victims. You may think the statement harmless, but we’re dealing with a twisted mind. It could be enough to be taken as a challenge. That brings me to lesson three: be brief. The less you say, the less they’ll try to hang you with later.”
Adana’s media lessons continued over the next half-hour. Then, she handed Sam a list of questions he could expect reporters to raise and left him to study. She stayed in the room, working on her press release, scribbling several pages worth of notes out by hand since they weren’t allowed to touch computers yet.
An hour before the actual press conference, Adana made Sam take a break and go grab lunch. He ordered two deli sandwiches for them from a local place that delivered since Adana didn’t want him leaving the building for fear the reporters might hunt him down. The turkey, cheese, and avocado sandwich with spicy mustard went a long way in cheering Sam. After scarfing down the sandwich, he resumed his question studies and read through some answers he had written on the cards.
At last, the pair headed back to Conference Room B where the press conference would be held. Adana took one last opportunity to give him a pep talk.
“Maintain eye contact when you answer questions and be clear about who you’re calling on when you select reporters. Keep a good mix of men and women. They should have logos on their microphones to indicate which company they work for. If you remember my notes, you can almost predict which questions each will raise. Good luck.”
Lengthening her stride, Adana swept in front of Sam as they approached the correct conference room. Nerves prevented Sam from hearing most of her press release, but she made a point of calling him forward to answer questions once her piece was done.
Sam sailed through the first three questions because Adana’s power of prediction was uncanny. Has the hacker claimed to be the park killer? Was anything else compromised? What is the FBI’s next step? In short, his answers were “no,” “not to my knowledge,” and “we will continue our efforts to apprehend the criminal or criminals.” The fourth question was also predicted, but when faced with it for real, Sam’s crafted answer eluded him.
The woman from the Philadelphia Inquirer looked straight in his eyes as she spoke.
“Agent Kerman, the hacker singled you out, presumably on behalf of the park killer. Are you afraid for your life?”
Sam could feel tension spike in Adana, who stood two feet behind and to his left.
His insides coiled like a snake ready to strike down a threat. Since his mind went blank, he had a chance to evaluate both options afresh.
Yes.
An admission of fear would come across as honest and realistic, but it could also be interpreted as weakness. The FBI could not appear weak.
No.
A denial would smack of bravado and challenge. It could be taken as strength, but he had no way to keep it from spiraling out and becoming more.
Turning so his shoulders squared with the woman who had asked the question, Sam leaned forward and gripped the podium lightly.
“Yes and no, ma’am. In a job like this there’s always the possibility of a dangerous turn, but that goes with the territory. The fear that exists is no more or less than that faced by my colleagues every day. Working for the FBI is a privilege many strive for. We have a motto to rally behind: honesty, bravery, fidelity. They’re small words with big impact. The best we can do is to do our best every time we wake up to face a new day.”
Sam held the lady’s eyes for a two-count before calling on the next reporter. His brain switched over to a kind of autopilot. Despite the length of the fourth answer, Sam generally kept the rest of his answers short and sweet as instructed. As the press conference wound down, the three television reporters stiffened almost as one. They kicked their camera men into gear and pressed forward, converging on the podium Sam stood behind.
The man from NBC News arrived first.
“I’m told the killer has one more question for you,” the man announced. He thrust a cell phone at Sam and hit a button.
Uneasy silence fell as everybody strained to hear.
A deep, mechanical voice filled the air.
“Agent Kerman, how much do you value your sister’s life?”
Sam’s hands clenched the sides of the podium. He wanted to seize the phone and hurl it across the room. Before he could find any words, the phone call ended, but the reporters still looked at him expectantly. The large, looming camera eyes stayed with him, recording his reaction.
“What’s your sister’s name, agent?” asked a woman.
“The killer just threatened your sister during a live press conference, how does that make you feel?” asked another woman.
“What will you do now?” asked the NBC guy.
The three questions hit Sam simultaneously.
“Excuse me,” said Sam. “I have work to do.”
He backed away from the podium and left the room quickly.
Chapter 13:
Would You Like to Play a Game?
The Killer’s Lair
Undisclosed Location
Crouching outside the bars of Cell 3, Andrew Novak watched the woman inside sleep. He had never been much of a pet person, but quiet moments like this, showed him some of the appeal. This was a first in many ways. Before the South Street Lady, Lurch had been his longest lasting prisoner, occupying Cell 1 for a full two days. This woman possessed an incredible lucky streak. Each morning, he’d wake her up and let her choose one of the lottery tickets in his extensive collection. If she chose a winner, he posed a question: do you want to live? So far, she’d always said yes, and her winning streak was approaching eight days now.
Why do you want to live?
After a rocky start, they had settled into a comfortable rhythm. Several times a day, Andrew would bring her a meal, sometimes h
e would include a sedative and sometimes he would leave the food alone. Cell 3’s accommodations included a commode hidden in the far left corner behind a truncated shower curtain to afford some privacy. When it looked like she would last more than a day, Andrew brought her a bunch of blankets to soften the single bench bolted to the back wall. She had put them to good use, fashioning a bed, a pillow, and even something that passed for a chair.
A hint of sadness touched Andrew as he realized his prison was probably more stable than the woman’s usual housing situation. What kind of society allowed women like this to freeze on cold winter nights? He called her the South Street Lady because that’s where he’d found her sitting on a flattened cardboard box with a plastic cup of coins clutched in her hands. A thin, filthy blanket provided minimal protection against the cold rain that night. Andrew had prepared an elaborate story, but he didn’t need it. All he had to do was open the back of the van and offer her a thermos of warm soup.
Once she was unconscious, he had stripped off her clothes and wrapped her in a warm blanket. Afraid of what might be traveling on the disgusting rags, Andrew had stuffed everything including the cup of coins and a sad, torn dollar bill into a large trash bag and thrown it in a dumpster behind a busy restaurant. Only after thoroughly washing her whole body, did he wrestle her into a pair of sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. He never shopped at consignment stores for himself these days, but he remembered the activity well enough to do it for his collection. Over a period of six months, he’d gathered enough clothes to supply several prisoners for years.
In sleep, the woman’s face lost some of the worry lines. Even the deep bags under her eyes smoothed out. Her long, stringy white hair had resisted his cleansing efforts, so he’d shaved much of it off the first night. The haircut, clean clothes, and thorough washing had taken years off of her appearance. He’d allowed her to choose her own outfit after the first night. That had been an interesting excursion. Even with handcuffs on and a grim fate hanging over her head, the woman couldn’t contain her wonder and delight while walking down the long aisles of clothes laid out on tables.
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