by P. J. Tracy
Then he looked at Mr. Zellickson’s world falling apart on his face, and felt really bad all over again.
Officer Haig answered the call for a squad with a cage, which made Gino and Magozzi very happy. The man was in the last quiet year of twenty as a workhorse on the streets, and there was no retirement present that could hold a candle to bringing in some mostwanteds while a hundred cameras were rolling. Magozzi went out to talk to him before Gino and John brought out the little monsters.
“You hit the jackpot, Haig.”
“Yeah? What have you got?”
“Box boys.”
Haig’s forehead wrinkled. “You mean the kids who pack up your stuff at the supermarket?” He studied Magozzi’s grin for a second, then his graying eyebrows went up to say hello to his hairline. “No fooling?”
“No fooling. You saw the mess of cameras and reporters at the house, right?”
“You mean the ones who’ve been blocking the streets and side-walks and entrances all day? Nah. Didn’t notice them.”
“It’s worse now than when you went out. All the networks, a ton of cable stations, and a few foreigns have the place surrounded with satellite vans. Looks like the Martians have landed.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just zip down into the garage like always . . .”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want you to off-load these boys at the front entrance. Maybe go around the block a couple times before pulling in so the media catches sight of you. We’ll be right behind you to help walk them up the steps, but you take the lead with one of them and go slow, got it?”
“Wow. I’m going to be on TV.”
“Comb your hair, Haig. The whole world’s going to get a look at it by tomorrow morning.”
“Cool.”
CHAPTER 36
THE MEDIA RANKS HAD SWELLED IN THE PAST FEW HOURS, vans filling the streets, photogs and reporters milling on the side-walks and front steps of City Hall. They were all hooked into Dispatch, Magozzi knew, and all had heard that the possible perpetrators of the box fiasco were being brought in. That had been the plan.
Gino looked up at the windows and saw faces at almost every one, watching what was going down. “This is about as big as it gets, Leo,” he said. “We’re going to be all over the news.”
“Let’s hope it works.”
“It’s not going to work. We’ll haul these kids off to Federal prison in front of the cameras and a million idiots out there will still think they could do what they did and not get caught. We’ll be chasing this tail for years to come. What a rush, closing down a city and getting the attention of the world. Look at this. In less than a week we’ve got murders on film and a fake terrorist attack, and maybe neither one of those things would have happened without the Internet. Goddamn Web is escalating everything, just like Chelsea said. Somebody’s gotta get a handle on this, ’cause there’s no going back.”
Officer Haig led Clark up the stairs to City Hall, pausing every few steps, supposedly to look for the men behind him, but actually giving prime shots to all the cameras flashing behind him.
Gino and Magozzi, flanking Kyle on their way up the steps, were forced to stop whenever Officer Haig stopped, and the media cashed in on film of the terrified boys that the satellites sent around the country and the world.
“Jeez, Leo,” Gino said when the hard lights hit his face, “what happened to Haig’s hair?”
Magozzi was trying to look professional and a little mean. A really good-looking woman with BBC all over her microphone was in his face, asking if these were the two perpetrators who had engineered and planted the boxes that had had the world holding its breath all day. “No comment,” he said, pushing past her gently while dozens of other voices yelled out questions. He leaned toward Gino and whispered, “I told him to comb his hair, and believe it or not, he pulled a comb out of his back pocket. Looked like Fonzie next to the jukebox, sweeping back the strands, getting ready for the girls.”
“He’s pushing sixty, Leo. He’s no Fonzie.”
John was trailing behind a few steps. Even in this media age, the Bureau still clutched at the threads of dignity from times past, avoiding the limelight. Hungry reporters and camera operators looked at him curiously, wondering if he was a person of importance, then turned away as if he were an unknown escort on the red carpet, not worth the film.
City Hall was blessedly quiet when they finally managed to get their prisoners inside, but behind closed doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of celebration. A lot of off-duty cops had stuck around after their shifts to revel in the happy ending to a nightmare day, clap each others’ backs like the warriors they were, and get the latest gossip.
“We’re going to have to give the Chief a couple minutes, John,” Magozzi said. “Will you and Haig take the prisoners down to a holding cell?”
“My pleasure.”
McLaren ran into them in the hallway on the way to the Chief’s office. “Swe-eet,” he greeted them. “Well done, guys.”
Gino always tried hard to play the curmudgeon, but nobody could ever accuse him of being unfair or ungracious. He reliably gave credit where credit was due, and today was no exception. “Are you kidding me, McLaren? We were just your delivery boys. You had the sharp eye, Monkeewrench had the brains, and we had the courage to go bust a couple Clearasil geniuses who puked the minute they saw a cop. Kind of like The Wizard of Oz.”
“Man, I wish I’d been there. Did they really puke?”
Gino smiled. “Yes, they did puke, and oh, it was pretty, my friend. A sight to behold. Normally, you don’t want to see recycled candy bars and nachos, but this was very satisfying.”
McLaren gave them both high fives. “Cool. Well, I’m outta here. Just wanted to stick around long enough to give you props.”
“Likewise,” Magozzi said. “You want to catch a beer with us later?”
His pale face turned slightly pink, and then he grinned. “Sorry, guys, but I’ve got a real cutie lined up for dinner.”
Gino nodded his approval. “No shit? Way to go, dude.”
Johnny’s grin got bigger. “JDate rocks.”
“I hope like hell you told her you were a Belfast Catholic before you agreed to meet her.”
“I know her story, she knows mine. Everything’s kosher.”
“Hey, at least you’re working your way into the lingo. Best of luck, friend,” Gino said, meaning it.
“Thanks. And hey, speaking of cuties . . . there’s a profiler from the FBI somewhere around here waiting for you. That’s some hot property.”
“Chelsea Thomas,” Magozzi informed him.
McLaren’s red brows lifted. “Ah, so you know her. Lucky you. She’s way outta my league.”
Gino shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, McLaren. She might be the kind of woman who picks the ugliest Christmas tree on the lot or adopts the blind, one-legged puppy at the pound.”
“Rolseth, you are such an asshole. Anyhow, have a good night, guys, and wish me luck.”
Chelsea Thomas was waiting for them outside the Chief’s office, and she did look hot . . . and different. She was dressed in a suit, but it wasn’t a Fed suit. Magozzi was no fashionisto, but he knew really great, expensive clothes when he saw them—Annie Belinsky had schooled him in that.
“Detectives. Excellent work today.”
Her smile was infectious, and Magozzi and Gino both succumbed. “Yep. Everybody did their part, and it turned out great.”
“Yes, it did. You can’t imagine how important this is as a deterrent. What kind of impression did you get from talking to them?”
Magozzi thought about that for a minute. “Actually, they weren’t the monsters I was expecting.”
“New kind of monster,” Gino said. “Stupid little bastards with too much alone time and no sense of consequence who think they can get away with anything.”
Chelsea nodded. “Their brains aren’t fully developed at that age.
Actually, they
’re boys, so their brains never fully develop.” Her smile flashed again.
Magozzi’s brows lifted. “Wow. You’re in a great mood.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. Want to grab a beer with us later?”
“I’d love to, but I have to get to the airport. The Director wants me on the morning talk-show circuit tomorrow to get as much publicity on this as possible. Save the interview tapes for me, will you? And congratulations again.”
Gino looked over at Magozzi. “We’re zero for two on the happy-hour buddies. I think we’re stuck with each other.”
“I think we’re going to be stuck here all night, anyway.”
CHAPTER 37
GRACE WAS STANDING AT THE MARBLE COUNTER IN HARLEY’S kitchen, picking her way through a chicken pot pie—she was eating purely for sustenance, not pleasure, so it seemed appropriate that she do it standing up. Huttinger’s hard drives had arrived, and they were all staring down a long night’s work.
She looked up when John Smith walked in a few minutes later. He was clearly exhausted, which was understandable, and yet there was something almost peaceful in his face, as if gravity had granted him a temporary kindness.
“You’ve had quite a night,” she said, laying down her fork. “We caught the news. Congratulations.”
“None deserved. The credit belongs to all of you and your extraordinary software, and to Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth, of course. They’re quite an impressive pair.”
“Yes, they are. But I’ll bet they didn’t feed you,” she raised her plate in an invitation. “There’s more in the oven if you’re hungry.”
“What about the others?”
“They ate earlier.” She started to move toward the oven but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Don’t interrupt your meal. I’ll get it, and thank you very much. It smells delicious. When on earth did you find time to make this today?”
“I make them in advance, and keep them in Harley’s freezer for nights like this.”
He asked for permission to sit after he’d filled his plate, and Grace pulled out stools for both of them. They sat side by side, looking straight ahead, eating in a silence that was oddly comfortable for two people who didn’t really know each other at all.
“I have a boat,” John said abruptly, ruining everything.
Grace chased a piece of carrot around her plate, letting the statement hang there. Damnit. And it had all been going so well. She should have known he’d turn out to be just like everyone else. It was one of the reasons she avoided people. “Hello” always turned into some inane conversation that would interest her not at all. What did she care if he had a boat? Now he’d tell her how long the boat was, what he’d named it, where he parked it, or docked it, or whatever it was you did with boats, as if all this information would be important for her to know.
“This is important,” he said, which was almost as weird as saying “I have a boat.”
She looked up from her plate, annoyed with herself for being a little curious. “I have no interest in boats,” she told him. Best to nip conversations like this in the bud.
“Neither do I. But I like where they take me.”
“Right. On the water.”
He almost smiled, but he didn’t look at her. “Not where they take me physically, where they take me in my head. I called my boss tonight and resigned. When I get back to D.C., I’m going to get on the boat and just sail away.”
Grace couldn’t help herself. She actually turned her head and looked at him, because, damnit, that was interesting. And stupid. “That wasn’t very smart, John. You’re going to lose part of your pension. Why would you do that?”
“Because you looked at me the other day, saw your future, and didn’t like it. I don’t like it much, either. So I’m going to change it. You want to come along?”
She snatched up the plates and walked to the sink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Okay. Do you want me to cover the leftovers with plastic or tinfoil?”
“Tinfoil.”
He went right to the correct drawer and pulled out the tinfoil. Grace watched from the corner of her eye. Harley had about fifty drawers in his kitchen. How the hell did he know where it was? Did he sneak down here when they were working and inventory everything? She spun away from the sink and folded her arms over her chest. “Why did you ask me that?”
John shrugged. “Because I didn’t know how much butter you put in the crust. A lot, and plastic wrap would make it soggy—”
“Not that, the boat thing.”
“Oh. Because you’re a great cook and you don’t talk much.”
UPSTAIRS IN THE OFFICE, Harley, Roadrunner, and Annie were deep into Huttinger’s hard drives, and were about to break when Harley roared from his station, “NO WAY!”
“Christ, Harley, give us a warning when you’re going to go ballistic in a quiet room,” Roadrunner complained. “What’s up?”
Harley spun his monitor around for his gathering audience. “I just found a hit list.”
“What?”
He tapped his finger on the screen. “Look. Every single name. All seven of the Web murder victims. This is completely off the chain.”
They all looked over Harley’s shoulder and read:Richard Groth, Duluth, Minnesota.
Elmore Sweet, Cleveland, Ohio.
Cy Robertson, Chicago, Illinois.
Evan Eichinger, Seattle, Washington.
Sean Pasternak, Los Angeles, California.
Gregory Quandt, Austin, Texas.
Alan Sommers, Minneapolis, Minnesota.
“Where on God’s green earth did you find this, Harley?” Annie asked.
“Better you should ask how, because I was friggin’ brilliant. Huttinger visited this creepy Ilovetokill.com website a lot, so I signed into the site—and this is the brilliant part—typed in a few of the vic names. This is the thread that popped up. AND . . . the date on the thread is December of last year, over a month and a half before the first murder.”
“Shift back in the thread, Harley,” Annie told him. “What comes before the list?”
“Okay, I’m going to give you the Cliff’s Notes, because the thread’s about twenty miles long. Basically it’s a bunch of freaks bragging about how many people they’ve killed, how they killed them, what they did to them before and after they killed them . . . it just goes on and on. But then one of the posters who calls himself ‘Killer’—real creative, huh?—says, ‘I’ve killed twenty so far this year, and I’m shooting for twenty more. I’ll kill anybody anywhere just for fun.’ ”
Annie made a face. “Sounds like some sick psycho blowing a lot of hot air.”
Harley shrugged. “Maybe, but then a new guy popped up, and get this: his handle on the website is Hole In One.”
Roadrunner’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus. That was in the post of the first murder, the one up north.”
“Bingo. Now look at the single line he posted before typing in all the names and locations.” He scrolled up to the top of the hit list, one line below Killer’s post about killing anybody anywhere.
Hole In One: Bullshit, Killer. Prove it. Start at the top.
Roadrunner was shaking his head. “I take it these guys are untraceable.”
“Good guess, little buddy. We are never, ever going to be able to find these people.”
“Not this way,” Roadrunner said.
Annie looked at him. “You know another way?”
Roadrunner shrugged modestly. “I had a thought.”
CHAPTER 38
MAGOZZI, GINO, AND MCLAREN WERE BACK IN FRONT OF the Homicide TV the next morning, watching none other than their very own Dr. Chelsea Thomas chewing up the scenery on one of the big morning news shows. Aside from her impressive intellect, which came through clearly and unpretentiously over the airwaves as she elucidated the dangers of suggestible, unsupervised youth, the viral nature of the Web, and other stirring and salient topics, she definitely had the “it” f
actor. And probably along with the rest of America, the hosts were eating her up like a bonbon. Magozzi figured she’d have her own talk show by noon.
McLaren was mesmerized, but Gino was fidgeting and fussing like he always did when ruminating over some dire injustice. Magozzi steeled himself for the rampage he knew was coming.
“Holy shit,” McLaren chuckled in amazement. “Did you guys just hear that? She’s, like, descended from Hollywood royalty. No wonder she’s so good on camera.”
Gino narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I heard it. And what a crime that is. She’s smarter than hell, she’s making great points, and those hacks just have to march out the celebrity-frigging-angle. They’re goddamned living examples of what she’s warning them about. And, to her credit, she looks pissed off about it.”
She did look pissed off. “That’s actually a good point, Gino,” Magozzi complimented him.
“Thank you, Leo. And you know what else is really stupid about this? Everything we thought we were going to accomplish by sewing this thing up nice and fast and publicizing the hell out of it is circling the drain right now. Nobody’s talking about anything else on the whole planet and those two little fuckers got the rock star moment they were looking for. They probably already have agents negotiating interview deals for them.”
“They’re going to prison, Gino,” Magozzi reminded him. “Twenty-four hours ago they were dreaming about freshman keg parties at the U of M this fall, and now they’re staring down hard time at a Federal pen. I don’t think that’s the rock star moment they were looking for.”
