The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  Marcus wanted to tell Fagan what he could do with his orders, but remembering his earlier conversation with the Director, he choked back his words and replied, “Yes, sir.”

  10

  THOMAS WHITE HUMMED A TUNE THAT HE COULDN’T GET OUT OF HIS HEAD AS HE DESCENDED THE STAIRS FROM THE LOFT APARTMENT THAT OVERLOOKED HIS SMALL SHOP. The piece of music was the String Quartet No. 8 in C minor by composer Dmitri Shostakovich. It was a dark piece of classical music filled with raw emotion and torment. He found it soothing.

  His music store, The Thirteenth Fret, was on 4th Street in the heart of the business district of Leavenworth, KS. He had started giving music lessons there many years ago and now ran the store for the late owner’s daughter, who had no interest in music but enjoyed getting her monthly percentage. She had tried to sell the business to him on many occasions, but he preferred the property records to be in someone else’s name.

  Music was his passion—or at least one of them. Guitars lined the walls from floor to ceiling while the center of the store contained speakers, pianos, amplifiers, and various other items such as cords and strings. A glass-fronted and humidity-controlled space occupied half of the back wall and housed many rare and expensive instruments. The other half of the back area was a soundproof space designated solely for music lessons.

  The piece by Shostakovich still in his mind, Thomas White removed an Ibanez Tosin Abasi Signature eight-string guitar from the wall and plugged it into a Mesa Boogie Triple Rectifier amp. Cranking up the volume, he played a version of the Shostakovich composition that he had arranged for guitar, incorporating sweep-picking and finger-tapping techniques. His fingers flew over the frets as he lost himself in the music.

  After what felt like only a few moments, he put the guitar down and turned to see his new student watching him with awe. Thomas checked his watch. He had lost track of time, and they were already five minutes behind. He hated to be off schedule.

  The kid’s eyes were wide with wonder, and a goofy grin creased his visage. Long black hair hung over his pimpled face, and he wore a black Metallica T-shirt displaying the cover of Master of Puppets. A guitar gig bag hung over one shoulder. “That was amazing,” the kid said. “You can shred.”

  Thomas basked in the praise. He bowed and said in his deep hypnotic voice, “Thank you. You must be Joel. I’m Thomas White. I understand that you want to learn the guitar?”

  “I guess, man. I have a buddy that plays drums, and he’s been wanting me to jam with him. I got this Yamaha for Christmas two years ago, but I’ve never really learned anything on it. Just a few things off YouTube. Should I get it out?”

  Thomas White gently rested the Ibanez guitar on a stand and replied, “No, we won’t actually be playing anything this first lesson. I assume you have an iPod or music on your phone? Most people your age do.”

  “Sure, I have an iPhone.”

  “Good. I want you to go through your phone and find your five favorite songs. Any genre. I want to hear the songs that speak to your heart.”

  “Okay. But we’re not going to play anything?”

  “Not this time. You see, it’s my belief that anyone can learn notes and chords and where to put their fingers. But not everyone can truly play. Music isn’t like a sport. It’s not a competition. It’s not about how good you are. It’s about whether or not you can release the music in your heart into the world. It’s about passion. It’s about emotion. Some of the best songs ever written only contain a few chords, but the composers poured their souls into them. I can teach you the mechanics, but that passion can’t be learned. You can fake it to a point, but just like anything else in life, the truth will eventually shine through. That’s the difference between most musicians and the true artists. So today I just want to discover your passions. It will help guide our experience together.”

  The kid smiled a lopsided grin and nodded. “Awesome. Give me a minute.”

  “Take your time.”

  Thomas White—a man known as Francis Ackerman Sr. in a former life—watched as the boy tapped around on his iPhone. He admired the strong jaw and handsome features hidden behind the dark and greasy mop of hair. He smelled the boy’s cologne in the air. The faint scent of citrus and mint. Then he imagined Joel’s features twisted in fear and torment. Joel had the perfect face to be turned into one of his death masks.

  Unfortunately, he never killed anyone he knew or even anyone with whom he held a tenuous association. Don’t shit where you eat, that was his rule. It was a simple yet effective guideline. Just like all his other rules about how to be simultaneously a prolific serial killer and a free man.

  11

  DETECTIVE KALEB DURAN HELPED CONTROL THE PERIMETER AS HE WAITED FOR THE MEN FROM THE GOVERNOR’S OFFICE TO ARRIVE. He looked toward the victim’s home—a greenish-gray ranch-style covered in vertical barn-style siding with red-brick accents. He should have been in there with the other detectives from the task force. This was the first big case he had been involved with, and his mother had stuck him on the sidelines babysitting some bureaucrats.

  The Coercion Killer case was a political minefield that had the whole state living in fear, and so it was no surprise that the Governor had requested two representatives to observe the investigation. But it did come as a surprise when Kaleb’s mother—Captain Maria Duran, commander of KC’s homicide division—assigned him to be their liaison. He should have been in there with the lead detectives and FBI agents, watching and learning how to properly conduct a murder investigation of this magnitude. Instead, he was stuck outside in the drizzling rain waiting for the Governor’s two reps to grace him with their presence.

  A man from the opposite side of the police cordon called out to him. “Hey, buddy, what’s going on in there? Is it that Coercion Killer?”

  “You can find out on the news like everybody else.”

  The man was a biker type covered in tattoos, with a piercing through his nose and huge holes in his ears. Kaleb hated the way that guys like that always seemed to wrongly view him as a kindred spirit instead of a cop. He had considered removing his own tattoos. They would probably never let him into the FBI with the tribal motif that crawled from his chest up his neck.

  Through the rain, Kaleb saw two men approaching the barricades. He told the cop to let them through and then shook hands with the pair of glorified errand boys. He had first met the pair two weeks previously when he’d been assigned as their babysitter. The first man, Andrew Garrison, seemed competent enough. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and a black tie and could have blended in with the agents from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit who were conducting their inquiries inside the house. The other guy, Marcus Williams, wore an untucked black button-down shirt, no tie, and a leather jacket. He had two days’ worth of beard growth on his face and dark bags beneath bloodshot eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “Give us the details,” Williams said as they walked toward the house.

  “I already told Mr. Garrison everything over the phone. You guys didn’t really have to come down here.”

  “Tell us again, kid.”

  Kaleb bit back a sarcastic comment and replied, “Same as the others. Sometime after Brad Dunham left for work the UNSUB entered the house and abducted Mr. Dunham’s wife and son. When Mr. Dunham returned home, he found a packet containing a video message and information about his target. Pretty much everything identical to the past cases. The only difference is that this time we have a head start. Mr. Dunham’s best friend is one of our detectives, and so Mr. Dunham called him immediately for advice.”

  “Signs of a struggle? Witnesses?”

  “We’re questioning all the neighbors. No signs of forced entry. There’s a broken glass in the kitchen, and the milk was left out on the counter with the cap off. We’re also checking for a connection between the family and the target or between them and the other victims.”

  “You won’t find any. He chooses them all at random.”

  “How can y
ou be sure of that?”

  “It makes him harder to track and catch. That’s what I would do,” Williams said as he pushed through the front door.

  12

  THE METAL CHAIR RESTED IN THE CENTER OF THE DINING ROOM. They had removed everything else, bolted the chair to the floor, and tied a rope around the chair and the prisoner’s midsection. Ackerman’s arms were pulled behind his back at an awkward and uncomfortable angle. A thick nylon rope encircled his wrists up to his elbows and had been secured to a two-by-four stud that the CIA contractors had broken through the plaster wall to expose. Another rope bound his feet in the same manner. They had even knocked out a portion of the ceiling and fixed a rope to a beam and then around his neck, forming a noose. If he moved his head more than an inch, he would choke himself.

  Two of the dire-looking contractors sat in separate corners of the room, each with a Benelli M1014 shotgun on his lap. They worked in short two-hour shifts to keep them vigilant.

  Ackerman had to admit it. These guys weren’t playing around, and they knew their jobs.

  The door of the dining room swung open and the black-clad leader and small suited man entered the room. The big man had sandy blond hair, a thickly lined and tanned face, and narrowed eyes that indicated an extended stay in a desert climate. He had a smug look of satisfaction on his face. The smaller man looked as though he belonged on Wall Street. His shoes squeaked on the hardwood floor, and he stank of expensive cologne. The big man pulled in a chair from the living room for the small man to sit down on.

  “I’m Deputy Assistant Attorney General Trevor Fagan,” the small man said.

  Ackerman said, “That’s a mouthful. Are you here to offer me a deal for my cooperation?”

  Fagan laughed. “No deals. Not for you.”

  “Then why would I want to help you?”

  “The satisfaction of finishing what you started. Your father’s still out there. You failed to finish the job the first time. I’m offering you a second chance.”

  “Where’s Marcus?”

  “There’s been another abduction. He’s gone to the scene.”

  “I’ll only speak to my brother.”

  Fagan leaned forward on his chair as if he were going to share a secret. “I need to know everything about your father. Any aliases that he’s used? Places he might be hiding? Anything that could help us.”

  Ackerman smiled. “How long has your wife been cheating on you?”

  “What? How did ...” Fagan caught himself and gritted his teeth. “Answer the questions.”

  “I don’t blame her. I would cheat on you too. I bet you’re all rules and regulations in bed. And she probably has more of an emotional connection with the washing machine.”

  Fagan stood and headed for the door. “I’m not playing your game. My associate here, Mr. Craig, is a very skilled interrogator. It’s his specialty. In fact, he probably enjoys it a little too much.”

  A throaty laugh came from the killer’s throat. He felt the noose tighten as he chuckled. “You’re threatening me with torture? That’s hilarious.”

  Fagan ignored him. He kept going and shut the door behind him. The big blond man sat in the chair vacated by the bureaucrat. He cracked his knuckles and pulled a KA-BAR combat knife from his boot. “How many?” Mr. Craig asked.

  “How many what?”

  “Men have you killed?”

  “That’s sort of a sexist thing to say. Don’t the women I’ve killed count as well?”

  Mr. Craig punched Ackerman hard across the bridge of his nose. His head whipped back, but the noose kept it from moving very far. The sweet pain shot down his spine. “How many people have you murdered, Mr. Craig? I can still smell their blood on you.”

  “I’m a patriot.”

  “Oscar Wilde said that patriotism is a virtue of the vicious. But no, I won’t even give you that much credit. You’re just a psychopath with a government pension. You joined up because you wanted an excuse to hurt people. The recruiters didn’t see talent and potential. They saw a predatory hunger and a sadistic need that they could bend to their will. Tell me about the things you’ve done to prisoners and enemy combatants when you knew you could get away with it.”

  Craig punched him again. Ackerman laughed. “Do you know anything about me? My father is second in the art of torture only to Satan himself. And God truly molded human beings into amazing creatures. I find it laughable when people argue about evolution and creationism as if they’re two mutually exclusive concepts. God made us to adapt to our environments in order to overcome adversity. I’m sure the creator had climate change and food shortages in mind when he programmed our ability to refashion ourselves, but that potential for adjustment also served me quite well. I endured so much pain as a boy that my mind rewired itself to the point that pain for me is an almost pleasurable experience.”

  “I’ve read your file, but I don’t know if I buy that you’re as immune to pain as you think.”

  “Feel free to try, but I may like it.”

  “I think I can come up with some things that even you won’t enjoy.”

  “Pictures of puppies and little children sometimes give me a headache and make my teeth hurt. If that helps.”

  Craig raised the knife. “I like a challenge.”

  Ackerman grinned. “We have that in common.”

  13

  THE DUNHAMS’ LIVING ROOM WAS AN OPEN SPACE WITH A FLAT-SCREEN TV ON ONE WALL AND A MASSIVE FIREPLACE CONSTRUCTED OF GRAY AND WHITE BRICKS BUILT INTO THE OTHER. White walls. Eggshell carpet. White leather couch. Marcus grimaced as he looked around. He said to Andrew, “This place seem weird to you? Kind of bleached-out?”

  Andrew looked around as if he hadn’t noticed. “Not really. Remind me, what color did you paint your office last month?”

  “Black.”

  “You’re not normal. You realize that, right?”

  Marcus scowled. “Well, I do now.”

  The crime-scene techs and officers were still hard at work, gathering evidence. He didn’t expect them to find any. He took in every detail of the scene. He closed his eyes and put himself into the killer’s mind.

  His process differed from those of the FBI profilers. In fact, he really didn’t have a process. He just remembered everything that he saw, and he could relate to the men whom he hunted. His method was more like old-school detective work. Examine the scene. Put yourself in the bad guy’s shoes. Notice something out of place. And be smart enough to connect that piece of evidence with something that could lead you to the killer’s doorstep or at least to another clue.

  The keypad to a security system rested beside the front door. Marcus wondered how the killer had bypassed it.

  He walked through to the kitchen. Saw the milk jug on the counter and the broken glass on the floor. A half-eaten grapefruit and a bowl of sugary cereal that had turned to mush sat on the kitchen table. The mother’s purse rested on the counter. The mother and son had both been having breakfast. The father had already left for work. Marcus wondered how the killer knew their routine so well. He must have been watching them for an extended period of time.

  Marcus floated through the scene in a daze, ignoring all the other people. Kaleb was saying something, but Marcus barely registered the words. Then Kaleb abandoned them as he went to speak with some of the other detectives, and Marcus and Andrew moved into the garage.

  The father’s truck—a big black utilitarian work vehicle covered in a layer of rock dust—was in its space now, but it wouldn’t have been when the killer took the family, and so Marcus ignored it. The kitchen connected directly with the garage, and Marcus suspected that the killer had come in through that entrance. There were several devices on the market that could clone a garage-door opener. When the family was out one day, the killer could have followed them, broken into their car, and cloned the garage-door opener, which would have given him full access to the house through the garage.

  But the mother and son would have heard the big mechanical door open
while they were having breakfast. It would have alerted them. But the bedrooms were at the opposite end of the house. If the killer had opened the door in the night, he could have entered without being heard at all.

  Marcus checked beneath the wife’s car, a light blue Ford Taurus. The concrete floor of the garage was relatively clean, but nearly every garage floor had a layer of dirt tracked in from the cars. This one was no exception. And beneath the Taurus, the dirt had been disturbed. The signs were barely visible, but they were there—the signs of a person sliding beneath the vehicle and out again.

  “He waited here for them all night, didn’t he?” Andrew asked.

  “I think so. Then, after the father left for work, he waited a bit longer. Until they were both in the same place, having breakfast. After that, he took them both down fast and hard. Probably two tasers, one for each of them. Shoot the mom. Drop the taser. Shoot the son. Then drug them both while they’re incapacitated.”

  “But how did he get two unconscious people out of the house in broad daylight without anyone seeing a thing? I could see it happening, but not at every scene. And this is a fairly busy street.”

  Marcus said, “He’s using some technique to blend in. Someone’s seen him, but they didn’t register him as out of place. Hours later, they didn’t remember seeing anything at all. You dress up like a mailman or a meter reader, and you’re as good as invisible to most people.”

  “Yeah, but a mailman dragging two bodies behind him would raise some suspicion. Plus he knows their routine. He’s been watching them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But a car or van parked on a suburban street like this for an extended period of time or some guy just hanging around would be noticed.”

  “I’ve got a theory about that, which means that we have another scene to check that the locals haven’t got to yet.”

  “What do you mean?”