“Excuse me?” Jeremy said.
“Are you supposed to be here?” He repeated.
Of course not. Jeremy wanted to say. None of us are supposed to be here. Things like this aren't supposed to happen. But he knew what he meant.
“FBI,” Was all the explanation he gave him.
“Oh. Okay sorry. Thought maybe you came over the fence. Media has been trying to get closer and closer all morning.”
He didn't bother responding he just walked back inside and made his way up to the second floor.
He removed the nose plugs and dropped them on the floor, thankful that the stench couldn't reach him there.
He didn't know what Costa thought he could glean from looking at their things. He was really only up there to humour him. He poked his head into what he guessed correctly to be the father's room. It was neat and tidy. A picture of his daughter’s high school graduation hung on the wall next to a small TV. Nothing that seemed out of the ordinary, then again he wasn't really looking.
He then stood in the hallway for a couple minutes just to kill time and then proceeded to the daughters bedroom, which he discovered was a typical – or at least what he thought would be a typical- young girl's room. Pink stuff, make up, relics here and there of her not distant enough childhood in the form of the occasional teddy bear or doll.
He knew there was nothing for him to uncover here. Not only because he already knew who murdered them but because there was no reason or rhyme to what Mister was doing. No clue, or lead or connection was here waiting to be uncovered. The only thing these people and Charlie and all the other victims had in common was that they were all humans and part of families.
He walked back out into the coolness of the hallway and listened to the sound of the calm commotion downstairs as he chewed on that thought for a second.
Humans in families. Could the connection be that broad? Human community? None of the victims seemed to lead particularly sordid lifestyles so it was doubtful he saw himself as some sort of moral arbiter. Was it simply jealously? Did he desire connection and acceptance above all else and was lashing out at it, out of spite? No, that didn't quiet fill in all the blanks. The uniform was an expression of office or position. He saw himself as special in the world, solitary unique. Maybe the target really was humanity all along. This wasn't simply about sex or power. Mister's madness was much more intricate than that. Much more grandiose. Did he think he was God in the flesh? A messiah complex? But again, these people all seemed clean and had little to be punished for. What possibly gripe could he have with Charlie?
The costume was a tool to cause fear. Fear was a tool to... What? He felt like something was starting to take shape. Some understanding of Mister's intentions but the harder he tried to make the pieces all fit, the harder they resisted. Mister's cool down period had in the past taken months. Now they were only days apart. Or was it simply a matter of not needing a cooling off period since he wasn't actually the one doing the killing? Jesus, what if he never killed? Jeremy wanted to believe that they had something. That there were leads. And maybe there were. But he was sure he would receive another video before they got them anywhere. How many times could he do this? How long could he bid time? How long before he just had to end the madness and accept Charlie’s death? And maybe if it was just a matter of Charlie dying he wouldn't be able to do what Mister was asking him. Maybe he could accept Charlie’s death and then spend the rest of his life tracking down the son of bitch. But it was the torture that he would do anything- anything- to prevent.
As he made his way back downstairs he recalled a faded memory of philosophy class in college. The professor had asked the class's opinions about the principles of double effect, otherwise known as the rule of double effect. Is it morally permissible to commit an act one would normally be obligated to avoid if its end result was committed for a greater good. For instance, dropping the bomb on Hiroshima to end the war or euthanasia. He recalled a lot of heated discussion around that one. It's easy to have an opinion on a difficult choice you're not actually faced with. Looking down the butchered and mutilated of corpses of his two most recent victims Jeremy couldn't recall what his opinion was all those years ago but he knew now.
He walked over to Costa who turned and asked:
“Thoughts?”
“Yeah. I think I need some fucking coffee.”
When the three of them got back to the field office Green came in the room and dropped a folder in front of Costa.
“Mrs. Whites work history.”
“Good. Anything that stands out?”
“Well, maybe yeah.” Green opened the folder and stabbed at one the pages with his index and said, “She worked in a shelter. Drop in centre kind of place. South central. The Anne Ferguson Centre.”
Jeremy perked up.
“That's it,” he said. “That's the connection.” He was unable to express his excitement but it was there, deep down inside... somewhere.
“You know the place?” Green asked.
“Yeah. Matherport was a regular hang around there. He used to talk about it.”
“Okay, so there we have it,” said Costa.
“Maybe Mister was someone who also spent a lot of time at the centre,” Someone in the room suggested but Jeremy had already slouched back and dissolved into his own grey and nebulous dimension.
“Okay, so Matherport spent time at the drop in centre. Maybe he developed a crush on Mrs. White. That explains why he's around so much. Mister sees the infatuation first hand, decides to exploit it.”
“Sounds plausible.”
Mouths opened and closed, theories were posited, hope was raised, just a little, but Jeremy wasn't there. He was somewhere deep inside of himself, where he couldn't follow.
CHAPTER 21
POP goes the bottle of champagne and everyone jumped, surprised smiles, waiting happily for their little plastic cup to be filled with bubbly.
Richard put on a brave smile, and decided to be gracious enough to 'celebrate' with everyone else, though celebrating was the last thing he wanted to do, or felt was appropriate. Sometimes a victory can also be a defeat, he mused, surveying the room of sycophants and over educated up starts.
“There's talk of an Emmy nomination,” The Head Honcho said, fatherly patting Richard on the back. “That was some great work Rich. Everyone is over the moon on how it turned out,” He continued and Richard was half expecting The Head Honcho to ruffle his hair and slap him on the ass.
“Well, it never would have happened if it weren't for you. Your instincts were right again” Richard, said, spitting the words out like a mouth full of shit.
“Right again!” The big cheese agreed, raising one hand in celebration, drawing the attention of the room and everyone fulfilled their obligations as minions by laughing on cue and cheering.
Perhaps Richard should just punch him in the face and take that offer at MSNBC. Hell, an ironic tenure on FOX would at least amuse himself. How would that be for a big metaphorical finger to the industry?
He was tired right down to the bones and so he let himself fall into a chair. Looking around at his colleagues he could feel just what an oddity he had become. Richard Lansdown, the last of the real news men. He had become a living monument to something which was paid much lip service but not really understood or valued anymore. But then again, he wasn't a real news man anymore was he? There was a time when the news was a valued and cherished institution of America's democracy. Now it was just another show, sandwiched somewhere between Cookie King and re-runs of some shitty sit-com.
The most humiliating part of it all was that everyone there knew just how much he didn't want to do the God damn Serial killer story. He felt like Grampa who didn't want to go to the park but everyone else knew that he needed the fresh air and it would do him good and look how happy he is now. So all the hand shakes and congratulations he was receiving was just a big charade. They knew it, he knew, he knew they knew he knew it. It made him physically ill.
> And then Kathy the intern came hurrying into the room. She was a young woman with big square glasses which were meant to be nerd-chic. Her face was drawn down low, and she her movements were rigid yet quick, like she was about to crap herself and was trying to get to the washroom with as little turbulence as possible.
“Mr. Lansdown. There's a telephone call for you.”
The Head Honcho over heard and he said, “It's probably Mister calling to say thanks for all the press.”
Half of those in ear shot chuckled politely and the other half turned away so The Head Honcho wouldn't see what a fucking douche bag they thought he was.
“Take a message.” Richard said and then motioned to the party with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “I'm Celebrating!”
But Kathy wouldn't let up. She just stood there stiff, white. Maybe even... scared? Yes she look scared, Richard realized and turned to face her squarely.
“What's the matter?”
She stepped in very close and whispered into his ear.
“It's the hospital. There's been an accident.”
Later on, he would swear he had a mini heart attack right at that moment. He sat there for a long time just nodding to Kathy and so she thought he must have misunderstood.
“Sir. There's been an accident.” she said again.
“Yes, yes. Of course there has,” Richard agreed, still not moving.
By now some of the others had over heard and were waiting, watching, the tension in the room thickening by the second.
“Of course there has,” Richard said again and stood up. Smiling to the sycophants and tweeters and hip ladder climbing condo dwelling whelps. He lifted his plastic cup of Champaign to them all and then to The head Honcho, smiled brightly, almost manically and dumped it down his dry throat in one gulp. Turning on his heel he left and not calmly, but slowly walked to his office and shut the door.
The light on his phone indicating and holding calling was blinking like a distress beacon. He watched it blink; A slow steady red flash. Danger, danger, danger.
Finally he picked up the phone.
“This is Richard Lansdown.”
“Mr. Lansdown, we need you to come to Saint Dustin’s right away.”
“What's wrong? What has happened?”
“Your wife has been in a car accident,” The voice on the other end said. “Hello? Mr. Lansdown? Are you still there?”
“Yes, yes I'm here.”
“Sir, we need you to come right away. It's urgent. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Of course... is she... is she dead?”
There was a long pause before the woman finally said, “No... but... You should come right away. Right now.”
“Okay. I'm on my way,” Richard told her and hung up the phone.
On his way to the hospital he had realized how crammed his skull must always be with his own thoughts because it was now completely and perfectly, for maybe the first time ever, void of them. He didn't even know it was possibly to not think. He always thought your brain was like a shark, if it stopped moving it meant it was dead. But here he was, driving all the way to the hospital with not a single thought in his mind. He told himself he would not think about it. Would not wonder, or guess, or jump to conclusions until he got to the Saint Dustin’s and learned for himself what the situation was.
The emerg was full of the wounded and sick. He pushed past the line to the triage nurse, more out of a panicked obliviousness than rudeness.
“My wife,” Richard started, feeling a himself grow fain. “My wife is here. She was... uh... in some sort of accident or...”
“What's your wife's name sir?”
“Debra Lansdown,” He said, and could see the sudden glimmer of recognition in the nurses eyes.
She looked down at the screen and never lifted them to him again.
“Please meet me at the door to the left there Mr. Lansdown, I'll buzz you through.”
The triage nurse met him just inside the emergency ward and still wouldn't look at him.
“Someone will be right with you.”
“Please tell me,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. He started over, stronger, more composed. “Please just tell me what happened.”
The nurse pursed her lips tight and looked down at the floor.
“It won't be a moment Mr. Lansdown,” she said and hurried out the room.
The hardest five minutes of his life crawled by as sat, waiting, unthinking, unfeeling, too scared to open his mind. A tall doctor finally appeared from down the hall with apologetic eyes and when he got close he placed his hand so softly and delicately on Richard’s shoulder that it made him want to weep because it knew what it meant.
“What happened?” Richard spat out feeling this words fall clumsily from his dry sputtering mouth.
“Mr. Lansdown. We must apologize for misleading you. Your wife has been critically injured but it was not in a car accident.”
Richard searched his eyes and found the horrible truth he didn’t want to find in them.
“Jesus no. Oh, Jesus, no.”
“The doctor put his hand on Richard’s shoulder again and it the tears were immediate.
“It was him wasn’t it? Oh Jesus it was him?”
The doctor grimaced and said, “The FBI insisted we didn’t tell you until you got here. There are two agents outside of your wife’s room. You don’t have to talk to them now if you don’t want to. In fact you don’t have to talk with them at all if you don’t want to.”
Richard could suddenly feel every one of his sixty seven years in his bones and in his organs. Cold feel the decay of his body, the pull of death’s hand tightening its noose.
“You can see her now... We don't expect her to make it through the night. I'm so sorry.”
The doctor led Richard to the corner of the intensive care unit where they had her set up. He froze at the curtain, clutching the fabric but unable to pull them open. He didn't want to see. If he saw it was real. What had he done? This was his fault somehow. He was culpable in this. He wanted to turn and run. Let the irrational urge to just try and will this thing away win. But he couldn't do that. He wife was in there. Alone. She shouldn't be alone.
He pulled back the curtain and entered the tiny space. Debra lay in the bed, asleep. Her face had been wrapped in gauze. A respirator was down her throat breathing for her. Wires streamed from nodes placed around her torso and her arm was in a sling.
More tears began to run down Richards face finding the deepest wrinkles in his dry skin like canals in the desert. He took his wife's hand in both of his and leaned over her and kissed her forehead. He had neglected her. He had pursued his career at the cost of this love. This one love he had ever known. He had made her a fixture in his life, not a co-creator. Not a partner. The mistakes of the years were so clear there in that sad little room, the monitor on the wall beep, beep, beeping. That was her heart, he thought. That beeping was her heart. And finally now after all these years he could hear it. This is what it took for him to hear his wife's heart.
He sat down next to her, replaying the years over in his mind like an old beat up vinyl record. He sat with her all night because he couldn't bare the thought of her being alone.
Somewhere in the night she left. She was gone and he was alone.
CHAPTER 22
Jeremy sat in his underwear unaware of the coldness of the tile flooring against his legs, listening to his cell phone on the coffee table ring, ring, ring. For a brief moment he couldn’t name the device, couldn’t grasp its meaning. Phone he realized. It is a phone. Someone was ‘phoning’ him.
“Hello,” he muttered into the little plastic box and someone on the other end said hello back.
“I need to see you,” the voice said.
“No,” he said to the voice.
“No? I uh… I’m sorry if I’m bothering you… I just really need to see you.”
“I’m home,” Jeremy said. “I’m not leaving.”
“I’ll come t
o you.”
“Who is this?”
“Jeremy…It’s Mary… Can I come see you… please?”
He gave her his address and slid the phone across floor like a curling rock and thought he heard the screen crack as it hit the baseboards on the other side of the room. The drapes were all drawn in the apartment, the lights were off and he realized that somewhere he had lost all reference to what time of day or night it was.
Time passed and he sat until his buzzer buzzed. Twice, three, four, five times. Finally he walked to it and hit the button to open the door without so much as a word, unbolted his door, left it ajar and crashed down into the sofa.
A few minutes later Mary entered, a large purse slung over her shoulder which she hugged in front of her like a scared child.
He became vaguely aware that he wasn’t wearing any pants but by time it registered he had already decided he didn’t give a damn.
“Jeremy…Are you okay?” She asked.
Very suddenly and unexpectedly to them both, Jeremy threw back his head and began to laugh. Big gasping ha ha ha’s until Mary become so disturbed that she found herself slowly walking backwards towards door. She reached the hallway and left and still Jeremy continued to laugh.
Finally the urge was quenched and he fell silent again, elated in some awful way by the flash of madness. After some few moments Mary slowly walked back in, the purse still clutched in front of her. She took a few tentative steps towards him stopped and then took a few more.
“What do you want?” he asked not bothering to couch the question in a kind tone.
“I want this to be over.” She said and Jeremy felt the urge to laugh start to grow in his belly again but he swallowed.
“Me too.” He said eventually. “Me too.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Do you want some water?”
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