The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  Maggie took a deep breath and tried to consider her next words very carefully. “That’s terrible. And cruel. But he can’t go around attacking any kid that’s cruel to him. You can’t settle all your problems with your fists. That catcher tonight was lucky. The next one may not be. Didn’t you see the way he pounced on him?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. Do you think I haven’t considered all this? He needs to get back in twice-a-week counseling. But Dylan’s been through a lot. Things you’ll never understand.”

  Marcus checked his watch and said, “We’re already three hours late. We don’t have time to argue about this now. We have jobs to do.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “And this job and kids aren’t compatible. It’s dangerous enough. We don’t need to throw distractions into the mix. We need to be focused.”

  “He’s my son, and he’s not going anywhere.”

  “Just think about it. Think about what’s best for Dylan.”

  With those words, Maggie dutifully walked over and joined Dylan and Arthur beside the black Lincoln Town Car. She didn’t look back.

  *

  Marcus watched the desert landscape whip by outside the window of the rented minivan. The ground wasn’t really sand but a compress of sand and rock. He knew this place started as rock and had dissolved away over the millennia. Sculpted by nature herself—Mother Nature, always refining and perfecting. Then Marcus watched the asphalt rush past. He realized that when humankind had conquered this particular ecosystem, we decided to throw out all those refining generations of nature’s work and return the world to rock.

  He glanced at the clock on the dash. If it was correct, then the trip to the prison had passed the halfway mark, and neither of them had said a word.

  Andrew had sat there and resisted the urge to ask a single question, while Marcus had stared out the window. He almost laughed. Andrew was always the rational one, the voice of reason, the peacekeeper. Both he and Maggie could be reckless and hotheaded. But Andrew was their anchor. They were a family, not just colleagues, and this job was more than a profession or position. It was a way of life. A calling. And they were brothers and sisters in that calling.

  Marcus wondered where that family would be now if it wasn’t for Andrew.

  He said, “I thought I told you to never rent us a minivan.”

  Andrew, behind the wheel, rolled his eyes and said, “It was all they had that was big enough.”

  “It smells like baby diapers and spilled juice boxes in here.”

  “It smells like a brand new car.”

  “Are they bringing us a replacement when it comes in?”

  “I think you can deal with it on this one trip.”

  Marcus growled deep in his throat and looked around the vehicle’s interior with disdain. He couldn’t quite understand why he disliked it so much. He just knew that he did. Even the color was wrong.

  Marcus killed the radio and said, “So why are we here?”

  “Do you think we should conference in Maggie?” Andrew asked.

  Marcus supposed that she’d appreciate the gesture, but she also wouldn’t be taking his calls. He said, “You’ll have to call her. She won’t answer if it’s me. She’s in a mood.”

  Andrew fished out his phone, dialed Maggie, and put her on speaker. Then Andrew said, “Okay, I assume you both read the briefing on the plane, so where do you want to start?”

  “Let’s just break it down from the top,” Marcus said. “This all started with the shooting incident yesterday.”

  “As far as we know.”

  “Any reason to think there were earlier murders?”

  Andrew said, “Just saying that it’s not this guy’s first time.”

  Marcus nodded. “So we have a prison guard in the tower who opens up and kills four inmates before blowing up the tower, killing two guards in the blast, and shooting another while trying to escape.”

  Andrew added, “The one he shot, Bill Singer, came through. He’s going to be fine. In fact, they’re calling him a hero.”

  Marcus said, “Good.” One less victim meant one less wrong he needed to right. One less family’s justice that was his job to seek out.

  Andrew continued, “That was yesterday. Then at about the same time, the guy who designed the prison’s security software was killed. Stabbed and shoved in front of a car to cover it.”

  “What about this security software and the prison? What’s so special about them?” Maggie said over the van’s speakerphone.

  Andrew said, “I don’t really know all the ins and outs. I’ll let Powell explain all that. But it’s some kind of predictive analysis software, and the prison is pretty dependent on it. They found a typed note on the computer guy’s body. It read, ‘No one can stop me. No one can stop what’s coming next. But call in the feds, so they can give it a shot.’”

  Marcus said, “He’s wanting attention. A bigger stage. A bigger opponent. He wants to prove his superiority.”

  Over the phone’s speaker, Maggie said, “In my experience, people who actually are superior at something don’t have to go around telling everyone.”

  Andrew added, “He’s insecure. But he also isn’t sloppy. He’s left virtually no evidence.”

  “What about the shooter’s family? Still no sign of them?”

  “Disappeared. No trace. The boys in blue are beating the streets, but judging from the husband’s demeanor, they’re already dead.”

  “Still hasn’t said a word?”

  “Not one. The locals have been at him since yesterday, but he’s checked out. Lights are on, but nobody’s answering the door.”

  Marcus considered all this for a moment and then said, “The question is: Why? The person behind this obviously has a plan. Some kind of end goal in mind. He’s not just doing this for his own amusement. He wants the world to know something or he wants to accomplish a specific mission.”

  “What does he want the world to know?”

  “Hard to say. Some perceived wrong. Something he’s compensating for.” Marcus allowed his mind to begin the process of sliding into this killer’s world, the killer’s perspective. “I want to prove something. I want them to know something.”

  Andrew said, “What do you want to prove? And who is them?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What about if he’s just trying to accomplish a mission?”

  “If it’s a mission, then we need to look at revenge or money or some kind of ideological cause.”

  Andrew drummed his fingers on the wheel and said, “Okay, so it could really be any of those at this point.”

  “What about the Director’s connection to all of this?” Marcus said. “He’s been trying to get me to take some time off since what happened in Pittsburgh. And now, not only is he coming to me with a new case, but it’s one with a ticking clock. I know we’re not supposed to talk about it—that whole splinter cell, compartmentalization, deniability thing—but we all know that we’re not the only team within the Shepherd Organization. So what’s big enough to call his best team off hiatus? That means it has to be personal to him or there’s something bigger at play.”

  Maggie started chuckling and said, “It’s just like you to automatically assume that we’re his best team. Maybe we were his last option. You know that’s your problem. You want to assume the best. Just like with Ackerman. You—”

  “Maggie, we’re going into a tunnel,” Marcus said as he reached over, grabbed Andrew’s phone, and hung up on her.

  He knew that he would pay for it later, but it sure felt good in the moment.

  *

  FILE #750265-6726-688

  Zolotov, Dmitry - AKA The Judas Killer

  State Exhibit F

  Description: Diary Entry

  My birth certificate reads Dmitry Zolotov, but I’ve had so many names over the years that my birth name carries little meaning for me. I initially took the name Judas because of my father, but I’ve come to find that it best describes who I am and the
life that I’ve lived. From my first breath, from my first cry, what I’ve loved has always betrayed me.

  My mother was a filthy whore.

  You may think that’s horrible to say about one’s mother. Then you may wonder why that information even matters?

  Simple. Because when future generations read and study these words and my deeds, I want them to understand the whole picture. To know who I am. To see what I’ve been through and what I’m about to accomplish despite the most humble of beginnings.

  Some of you may not consider what I’m about to do to be any kind of an accomplishment. But to you I say, take another step back and consider all of these events.

  Even though this was written prior to the first shot being fired, when you finish this diary, you will realize how perfectly all of the pieces fell into place.

  Not by accident, but by my design.

  Then you will see that the events that have transpired here will never be forgotten.

  This is my magnum opus. My legacy. The greatest performance of my life. So for those of you studying this, to you future generations, please consider these words to be the behind-the-scenes documentary of my life. A short autobiography from one of the most infamous and fascinating men in history.

  All that being said … back to my mother, the whore.

  I don’t call her that as an insult or a comment on her being promiscuous. It was her chosen profession. She sold her body and time for money. I don’t fault her for that. I’m not one to judge.

  So you may be asking, then why did you say “filthy whore.” That seems to carry some pretty angry and negative undertones.

  Here’s the truth. It never really bothered me once I was old enough to know that my mother had sex with strange men for money.

  But it did bother me when my father explained that I was actually her third child. And my two siblings had been aborted, just before birth.

  My father also explained that my mother was not only a “shlyukha” (the Russian word for whore), but she also LIKED to get pregnant.

  You would think that would hurt business for a woman in her profession but, to the contrary, there were plenty of clients willing to pay extra for a pregnant woman. Plus, she normally couldn’t get much extra money from the local pornographic filmmakers. But when she was pregnant, they took notice.

  That’s what always bothered me about my mother. Not that she earned on her back. No, I always hated my mother because she pimped me out the moment I was conceived.

  She forced me to be a whore, too.

  And what I’ve learned is that there are some jobs that aren’t just something you do. They define who you are. They infect your soul.

  I’ve seen this most often with whores and cops.

  But I didn’t have a choice in that corruption. I didn’t even have the option to choose death over being defiled. My mother made that choice for me.

  That’s why I hate her.

  That’s why I’m glad my father killed her and saved me the trouble.

  *

  As they pulled up to the prison gates, Marcus said, “I think you forgot to mention all this.” He gestured toward a substantial crowd of protesters gathered at the prison’s outermost perimeter. There were maybe thirty of them. A conglomerate of every race and age. Thirty people gathered at a perimeter gate that was barely in sight of the actual prison building. As he examined them, Marcus noticed that they seemed to be made up of at least two different groups. One group held signs touting messages of Slave Labor and Dangerous Change. Another group was more emblazoned and held signs about the ULF—ULF Killed My Son, An Eye for an Eye, and ULF Means Death.

  Marcus said, “Do we have a celebrity prisoner?”

  Andrew passed their IDs to the guard at the security post and then said, “I’m afraid we do. Leonard Lash.”

  Marcus growled in disgust. He had heard about this on the Daily Show and had read an article he had seen on Twitter.

  The presence of Leonard Lash raised the case’s profile to the point that it would normally be something that the Shepherd Organization would shy away from. More press meant more people asking questions about their group. Their “think tank.” More people digging into their cases and questioning their methods—both those that were legal and those that bent or outright broke the law.

  Leonard Lash, a political activist originally from the south side of Chicago, had risen to national prominence because of his work for equal rights. But Leonard had truly become a legend when it came to public light that his group—the ULF—The Urban Liberation Front—was actually operating much like the gangs they were so opposed to. The ULF had its hands in a lot of illegal activities in order to bankroll its agendas. But the worst offense was that the ULF and Leonard himself had been calling for young men to follow the examples of terrorists and coordinate an attack on law enforcement and government buildings.

  After three former gang members connected to the ULF set off a homemade bomb at a local police station, a task force of state and federal officers made it their missions to bring down the ULF. Their battle ended when Leonard Lash was given life in prison for his role in the Arizona bombing and other illegal activities.

  The ULF as a whole had somehow survived the scandal and was still a thriving organization, with many claiming that Lash had been framed by the government.

  All of that added up to a lot of controversy and noise and attention that the Shepherd Organization would want to avoid. And Marcus had just as many skeletons in his closet as anyone else in the group.

  The guard pressed a button, and a large set of security barriers retracted into the concrete. Andrew released the brake, allowing the minivan to roll through onto a field of the same sand and gravel compress, but Marcus could see where the terrain had been flattened halfheartedly and then compressed with another layer of sand, and likely chemicals, in order to kill any attempt at plant growth. Marcus understood the reasoning. It was to create an effect. To set the mood.

  The attempt and the effect were mostly successful. There was almost no plant life for at least five football fields in any direction.

  The space felt harsh, inhospitable, and dangerous. Just entering the barren expanse of ground kicked off alerts within the lizard part of Marcus’s brain. The lizard didn’t understand all the reasons they were entering the space. The lizard just knew that to enter here was to invite death.

  The lizard was all impulse driven. In this case, the lizard part of his brain wanted to turn back the way they had come—the way it knew was safe—and run.

  Marcus could understand that a prisoner in the main building would want to avoid this wasteland at all costs.

  It also created a strange awareness of Foxbury being somewhere beyond the reach of the rest of the world.

  Andrew said, “Eerie, huh. Powell has a big thing with concentric circles of security and separation.”

  After being buzzed through a slightly less fortified security fence—one still equipped with razor wire and other deterrents—they came to a parking area. There was a concrete pad only large enough for a couple of prison buses and some security jeeps. Marcus saw that the small lot was well guarded. He knew that, if it were him, one of those jeeps would seem much more appealing than a stroll into the valley of death. But the extra guards at the lot seemed only precautionary, since he still could only see the main buildings of the prison over the top of a twenty-five-foot concrete wall bordered by guard towers.

  He also noticed the two men waiting to meet them. One of the men was his boss, the Director of the Shepherd Organization and the man who had recruited him. The other must have been Scott Powell, the visionary behind this new prison.

  *

  Judas had killed many times over the years, but none of those killings had been quite as exhilarating and satisfying as the murder of Debra Costello. He would have given almost anything to reach that peak again. But he also realized that achieving that kind of high had its price—an especially costly one in Debra’s case.

>   His anger made him want to get his hands dirty again and kill the engineer in her home, up close and personal.

  Still, he didn’t want this crime tied back to the prison. At least not yet. Which made the decision to stage the scene as a crime of passion all the more advantageous.

  He parked his decoy car, an old Buick purchased for two thousand dollars cash, across the street from the engineer’s home and ran down his evidentiary checklist. Untraceable shoes, untraceable generic jogging outfit, the facial prosthetics, the padding that made him look overweight. It was unlikely that he would be seen and described after the body was found, but he liked to be thorough.

  He checked his watch. He would also need to be quick. He had appointments to keep.

  Then he triple-checked the most important piece of his wardrobe. The knife secured to the small of his back. The knife he had used to murder Debra Costello. The one he would now use to cut off chunks of the engineer’s flesh.

  *

  The Director made the introductions, describing Scott Powell as “an old friend.” Then he said, “Marcus, Warden Powell is going to show you around his little … complex, while I have a word with Andrew. We’ve already heard Scott’s sales pitch. We’ll catch up.”

  Marcus followed Scott Powell through a metal gate mounted in the massive concrete wall. Powell’s hair was graying, but he had a full thick head of it. His aftershave smelled vaguely of soil and freshly cut wood. Wrinkles from past and present worries blockaded Powell’s eyes, but he was also in great shape and exuded a youthful vigor. Or, at least, he did in that moment, as he described his life’s work.

  “As you can see, the outer perimeter is all about multiple layers of security. It’s my opinion that the most important duty of a good prison system is to protect the general populace from those individuals with no respect for the law.” Powell spoke with a booming and authoritative Louisiana accent.

  Marcus said, “I think we can all agree on that.”

  “But, as a society, we must go beyond that duty and explore what other things we want our prison systems to accomplish.”