Violet Darger | Book 8 | Countdown To Midnight

by Vargus, L. T.

  “‘Did Jack the Ripper move from London to New York City in search of fresh hunting grounds?’” Darger read. “‘This is the question many were asking in 1891, after the gruesome murder of a Bowery prostitute named Carrie Brown. In a manner bearing a startling resemblance to the previous victims of The Ripper, Ms. Brown was found strangled and disemboweled in the East River Hotel.’”

  “I don’t imagine the East River Hotel still exists?” Loshak said.

  “I doubt it,” Fredrick said.

  Darger’s fingers were already tapping over the keyboard.

  “But maybe we can find where it was,” Darger said.

  Her eyes zigged and zagged over the screen, searching for any mention of the building’s former location.

  “Found it. The corner of Catherine Street and Water Street in lower Manhattan.”

  “Let’s fucking go,” Fitch said.

  CHAPTER 39

  While Fredrick stayed at the penthouse to oversee the scene there, Darger and Loshak were tasked with heading to the former site of the East River Hotel with Fitch and the rest of the CIRG team.

  Darger ran inside to strip off her soiled bunny suit and wash the grease and grime from her hands. When she came back outside, Fitch and Loshak were waiting at the curb in the black CIRG SUV.

  “Climb aboard,” Fitch said, his eyes smiling. “NYPD is going to lead the way, motorcade style.”

  Darger opened the door and hoisted herself into the backseat. Before she could close the door behind her, Fitch was speeding away from the curb and down the street. Up ahead, their police escort swooped in front of them, sirens on, clearing the early morning traffic from their path.

  With a sharp tug, Darger was able to close the door. She fastened her seatbelt. Sniffed the air. The interior of the SUV was filled with the distinct aroma of bacon and fried potatoes.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Loshak tossed something to her from the passenger seat. She caught the strange package with both hands. It was oblong and wrapped in foil. And it was warm.

  A breakfast burrito.

  Darger peeled away the foil and took a bite. It was quite possibly the best thing she’d ever tasted, and she managed to scarf half of it before she had time to wonder where it had come from.

  “Where the hell did you get burritos?”

  Fitch held his half-eaten burrito aloft and waved it in the air.

  “One of the residents of Bainbridge Tower ordered like 200 of them from the place down the street. Wanted to thank us for quote, Putting our lives on the line to save theirs.” He chuckled. “Rich people are hilarious. So dramatic.”

  He took another bite and kept talking.

  “Anyway, the burritos are why I called dibs on driving the SUV versus riding in the van. McAllister won’t let us have food around his precious equipment. He treats that console like he’s married to it. Swear to God.”

  Even though the morning rush hour traffic had waned a bit, they still hit patches of road at a standstill. Darger’s leg bounced up and down as she did the math. They had about six hours to find the next clue, figure out who the target was, and neutralize whatever device Huxley had left for them this time.

  “You know, people think guys like Dobbins and Alvarez are crazy for volunteering to go in and disarm these things,” Fitch said. “Even with the gear and the training, it’s dangerous as hell. They all know that. But I think you gotta be a thousand times crazier to tinker with this stuff by choice the way a guy like Huxley does. I mean, you couldn’t pay me to mess around with explosives for funsies. I won’t even light off fireworks on the Fourth. Every year people blow their hands off or end up killing themselves by getting drunk and tipping the mortar over. All for a two-second boom and a little flickery light? Ain’t worth the risk, homes. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t know where guys like Huxley get the ’nads. Like, at least the guys on the bomb squad can tell themselves they’re doing it to save lives.”

  “Serving the greater good,” Loshak said.

  Fitch shoved the remainder of his burrito — a portion roughly the size of Darger’s fist — into his mouth.

  “Exactly,” he said, the food muffling the word. “That’s the only thing that makes it worth it.”

  “Well, it’s like we said during the meeting… most bombers have that same conviction. Albeit in a more twisted sense.”

  Fitch scoffed and several morsels of rice flew out of his mouth.

  “Twisted is fuckin’ right. I just don’t get how this guy can blow up some random dude from a coffee commercial or douse some actress lady with acid and think that’s somehow good.”

  Loshak crossed his arms.

  “He’s created a narrative that says fame and celebrity and all of these things we worship are ruining society. That’s common among bombers, this notion that society is somehow on the wrong track, and they’re here to more or less force us onto the right one.”

  “And they actually believe this?”

  “I think a part of them does. But again, a large part of it is a story they’re telling themselves to cover their true feelings of inferiority. Everyone does this, to some degree, but in less harmful ways. You might tell yourself that the reason Bob got the promotion and you didn’t is because Bob’s an ass kisser and your boss plays favorites. But underneath that, there’s a part of you that wonders, ‘Is Bob better than me, and that’s why I didn’t get the promotion?’ We tell ourselves a little story to get past this small sense of rejection and failure. I think these guys have to create a really huge, over-the-top narrative to compensate for huge, over-the-top inadequacy.”

  Fitch chewed and nodded.

  “K, but lemme ask you this… why go to all this trouble to create this big over-the-top scheme and then kill yourself?”

  “There’s a chance he was trying to martyr himself in some way,” Darger said. “The bomber archetype loves to romanticize the great sacrifice they’ve made for their cause. Timothy McVeigh certainly had a bit of a martyrdom complex. He believed his execution would open people’s eyes in a similar way the bombing had. That the public would be disgusted at the notion of his so-called ‘government-sanctioned murder.’”

  Fitch hissed dismissively.

  “Please. That psycho can rot in hell for all I care.”

  Darger leaned back in her seat, trying to loosen a tight spot between her shoulder blades.

  “The other explanation is that it was another power play. It’s not uncommon for mass shooters to commit suicide to avoid being caught. It’s yet another way to assert control. They choose who lives and dies. And they choose the moment and circumstances of their own death. I think in their minds, allowing themselves to be arrested would feel like losing or submitting. Giving up control. By killing themselves before they can be taken into custody, they control the outcome.”

  “Kinda like the ultimate ‘fuck you,’” Fitch said.

  “Pretty much.”

  They sped through Chinatown now, past the colorful awnings and banners written in English and Cantonese that offered jewelry, dim sum, souvenirs, Chinese herbs. Fitch had his window down, and Darger caught a whiff of fried food from one of the restaurants. She immediately imagined a piping hot bag of egg rolls straight out of the fryer, and even though she’d just eaten an entire burrito, her mouth watered.

  When they reached the former site of the East River Hotel, everyone got out and took in their surroundings for a moment. Darger wadded the foil wrapper from her burrito and tossed it in a bin next to where they’d parked.

  The area was now occupied by a small park with a jungle gym sandwiched between an apartment building and a storage facility. The water’s edge was only a block away, the surface of the East River shimmering under the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “What do you think?” Fitch asked. “Would he hide it in a park again?”

  “That’s where I’d start,” Loshak said.

  It took a few minutes for the NYPD to clear the area of civilians before they coul
d begin their search. They spread out, using sticks to prod into the bushes and clumps of daylilies. Peering under benches and sifting through garbage bins. They spent nearly an hour picking through what felt like every blade of grass in the park, but the search was fruitless. Even the dogs came up empty.

  Darger’s frustration had her molars grinding again. She could picture the next chunk of the journal — another pack of pages stuffed into a freezer bag.

  Was it here somewhere? Were they even close?

  “Now what?” Darger said.

  Loshak eyed the giant sign on the storage facility.

  “What if he rented a unit in there?”

  Darger turned to one of the dog handlers.

  “Could the dogs detect a scent through a storage unit door?”

  “It’s possible,” the K-9 officer said. “Depends on how strong the scent is. How thick and well-sealed the door is. There are other variables as well, but we can always try.”

  Loshak’s gaze had shifted over Darger’s shoulder. He frowned.

  “Oh, this is cute,” Loshak said. “We’ve got ourselves an audience.”

  Darger turned and noticed a small crowd forming near the police barricade. Several of the people had their phones out and appeared to be taking video of the park search. Apparently, the sensationalistic nature of Huxley’s crimes was continuing to occupy the public’s interest.

  One of the people in the crowd noticed her studying them and waved a hand in the air.

  “Hey, FBI lady!” A twenty-something kid with hair hanging in his eyes called out. “Are you looking for Jack the Ripper?”

  Darger and Loshak glanced at one another.

  “Now how the hell did he know that?” Loshak asked.

  Darger had an inkling. She pulled out her phone.

  “Son of a bitch.” She held up her screen. “The newest clue got leaked again.”

  Loshak crossed his arms.

  “Well, I think our theory about it being something Huxley set up is probably right. It’s too consistent. Just a few minutes after we get the clue, it gets posted online. Like clockwork.”

  “But how?”

  Loshak shook his head.

  “Could just be on a timer. You know I’m useless at this computer stuff, but maybe there’s a way he could have set it up to trigger like using a Google Alert. Anyway, leaking the clues and journals would ensure a certain level of public attention. That was clearly his goal with all of this.”

  Darger shook her head, a certain part of her almost impressed at the amount of detail Huxley had put into his plan.

  “There are already hundreds of comments on the newest post.” She scrolled through the comments, skimming mostly, then paused on one and chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Oh, people are posting their own theories about the clue. Some of them are just dumb. Listen to this one. ‘Guys, what if Tyler Huxley is related to the Zodiac Killer? He used a Zodiac-inspired cipher in one of his letters. It’s almost like he’s trying to tell us something. Has anyone looked into his father’s life? Could he have been in the Bay area from 1968-1969?’”

  Loshak snorted.

  “Here’s someone pointing out the Jack the Ripper references. ‘Dear Boss and funny little games are references to the Jack the Ripper letters. I believe this clue is referring to the old East River Hotel, where a prostitute was murdered and many people now believe Jack the Ripper might have been the culprit.’” She thumbed further down the page. “And here’s the resident nutjob saying that this whole thing is a false flag operation created by the FBI to improve their failing public image. Then someone else makes a joke about a poop knife.”

  “What the hell is a poop knife?” Loshak asked.

  “Beats me,” Darger said, eyes scanning the screen. She stopped and reread the last comment. “OK. Hold on. This one actually makes sense.”

  Loshak blinked.

  “The poop knife?”

  “No.” She kept reading, realization dawning on her.

  When she finished, she looked up at Loshak.

  “We’re in the wrong place.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Darger read the post out loud as they hurried back over to Agent Fitch’s SUV.

  “‘Look at these references. The most obvious is Instant Karma! Then, Imagine. Both John Lennon song titles. Then we have a mention of “phonies,” a term used repeatedly in Catcher in the Rye. All of these clues point somewhat indirectly to Mark David Chapman, who was carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye when he shot John Lennon. Note, too, that he referred to his victim’s blood as strawberry red. I think the clue is pointing to Strawberry Fields in Central Park.’”

  Darger glanced up from the phone.

  “The Jack the Ripper stuff was a decoy,” Darger said. “And we fell for it.”

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet. In fact, I think we should keep a group here to continue searching, just in case,” Loshak suggested. “For all we know he might have split the next clue over more than one location. I’m going to call Agent Fredrick and have her send a K-9 unit and more backup to help us search Central Park.”

  “Good idea,” Darger said.

  They climbed into the SUV with Fitch at the wheel and took off. Blocks of concrete rushed past, but Darger couldn’t bear to look out the window. Panicky feelings were roiling up inside her now. Peppering her with negative thoughts one after another: that they’d never be able to find the next bomb in time, that more would die by way of Huxley’s contraptions, that this whole chase would never end. She leaned forward, tucked her head between her knees, and made herself take deep breaths.

  A hand appeared in front of her face, momentarily distracting her from the borderline hysterical dread.

  “You see a case of drinks back there, Agent Darger?” Fitch asked, his fingers patting around the floor near her feet.

  Darger shifted her gaze to a box of Monster energy drinks nestled behind the passenger seat.

  “Yeah.” She snatched up one of the cans. “You want me to hand you one?”

  “Please and thank you,” Fitch said. “Help yourself to a can, if you’d like.”

  Darger waved her hand.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “What about you, Agent Loshak? Care for a bit of liquid stamina?”

  Loshak licked his lips.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Darger handed them each a can. Loshak cracked his open and took a huge gulp. The scent hit her a few seconds later.

  Her nose wrinkled.

  “Smells like gummy worms mixed with cough medicine.”

  “I like it. It’s crisp.” Loshak shrugged. “Now I’ll tell you what tastes like cough medicine. Red Bull.”

  Fitch chugged half his can in a single swallow, followed by an exaggerated ahhh sound.

  “A sweet nectar,” he said.

  When they arrived at Central Park, the SUV slowed and parked. Darger took a few deep breaths. Nausea still lurched in her middle, but she forced the feelings of doubt from her mind.

  Loshak leaned forward, staring out through the windshield. The John Lennon memorial was packed with people, some of whom were behaving oddly. Darger spotted two women on hands and knees, crawling underneath benches. She saw another man wielding a metal detector. A few yards away, a teenager got down on all fours so that his friend could stand on his back and climb a tree.

  “What the hell is this?” Loshak asked as they regrouped on the sidewalk. “What are all of these people doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Fitch said. “I’ve never seen it this packed.”

  Darger’s mouth dropped open when she realized what was going on.

  “They must have seen the same post we did. They’re looking for the next clue, same as us.”

  “Oh great,” Loshak said. “That’s just what we need. A bunch of dingbats from the internet getting in our way.”

  While they waited for the NYPD to clear the area, Loshak continued grumbling about the p
ublic meddling in their case.

  “Can I just say how idiotic this is?” he said. “How do they know Huxley hasn’t planted explosives here? We came armed with the CIRG team and bomb-sniffing dogs. These people are out here just asking to have a limb blown off.”

  “Anything to be part of the story, I guess,” Darger said, getting out her phone to see what people were saying online.

  The number of comments on the post had now tripled. There were links to YouTube videos. Someone was even livestreaming from the park. Darger clicked to open the livestream. The camera angle showed the exodus from the opposite side of the park. The camera wheeled around to show the man filming. He was in his mid-twenties and wore a baseball hat turned backward.

  “As you can see, we are not the only people who came down here today, but now we are being forcibly removed by the fascist NYPD, as if peaceable citizens don’t have a right to convene in this public space,” he said into the camera.

  Darger glanced at the comments and immediately regretted it.

  A user named Alt3r3dB3ast69 wrote: Nice to see these rich liberal Hollywood cucks get taken down a peg, for once.

  “Yikes,” Darger said out loud.

  “What now?” Loshak asked.

  “Oh, just that there are apparently some people among the public that are on Huxley’s side.”

  Loshak let out a breath.

  “Between that and people inserting themselves in the investigation like this, things could get nasty.”

  Darger stared at the people who had turned up in hopes of finding Huxley’s next surprise. A babble of voices came from the crowd being ejected from the park, but one nearby rose above the rest.

  “Why are you kicking us out, man?” a kid in a tie-dye shirt asked.

  “This area is a potential crime scene,” the officer explained.

  “Because of the Huxley journal?” The kid scoffed. “Someone already found it, Chief. You’re too late.”

  Darger took a step closer.

  “Excuse me. What do you mean someone already found it?”

  “The same guy that posted the solution. GinerSpaniel. He said he found the journal already. Came out here before he even posted the Strawberry Fields solution so no one could beat him to it. Everyone basically accused him of being full of shit, so then he posted a video of him with the clue. Scans of the pages and everything.”