The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  Dunn had a strange way of vomiting up his words. He didn’t exactly stutter. He just seemed to have a hard time getting started. Like the words were thick and sticky and got caught in his throat.

  Dunn said with effort, “Sergeant Singer is my friend. And if I wasn’t the way that I am, I think I could have got there in time to keep him from getting shot. I asked Major Ingram if I could be a kind of liaison between the guards and the investigation. I think I can help.”

  Andrew nodded and put on a mask of sympathy, thinking in the back of his mind that some killers liked to insert themselves into the investigation.

  From across the room, Marcus said, “Let’s get started.”

  The gathered group took their seats at the conference table. Marcus stood on one side, next to Powell. Andrew had purposely chosen a seat far away from Marcus on the opposite side of the oblong table. As Marcus conducted the briefing, Andrew would watch the reactions of the people in the room.

  Marcus said to the group, “Let’s start with what we know so far. At a quarter past four yesterday, Officer Ray Navarro opened fire on the yard and killed four inmates with a 30-06 rifle, and then took out two correctional officers with an improvised explosive device. But there’s more to it than just what’s on the surface. If you saw this on TV, you would instantly think disgruntled employee. We don’t believe that’s the case. We believe that our real perpetrator abducted Navarro’s family and forced him to execute the four prisoners. They weren’t random targets. They were men marked for death. The obvious question is: Why those four men? One thing they had in common was that they were all high-ranking gang leaders. Major Ingram, any other connection you can think of between the victims?”

  Ingram was a large black man with a bald head and a gray goatee. He shook his head and, with a voice like a bear’s growl, said, “No, sir. There’s no connection we’ve found between them. And despite the gang connection, I can’t see how anyone would benefit by killing them.”

  “Another question. Why was a man who helped design your software, Peter Spinelli, murdered at the same time as the shooting?”

  At the mention of her brother, Lisa Spinelli said, “We’re going over the system with a fine-tooth comb. So far we’ve found nothing. And my brother would never sell the software, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I’m not making any assumptions. Just keep digging and keep thinking. There must be a reason he was targeted beyond just sending a message to bring in the feds. Which is another question. Why does our killer want more attention and more people trying to catch him? What is he planning that he needs a big audience for? Sheriff Hall, are there any groups around—militia, cult, extremists, glory hounds—who might do something like this? Anyone we should be looking at from a local angle? Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Hall was in his late thirties, and Andrew pegged the man for a former Boy Scout turned military turned cop. It was all there in the man’s high and tight haircut, the precise way he wore his uniform, and the erect posture he had maintained since entering the room. But now, Sheriff Hall wasn’t playing the role of the good soldier. He was staring off into space. Hall’s eyes seemed distant, but they were moving rapidly from side to side as if he were scanning a newspaper from left to right. Hall didn’t acknowledge Marcus. Major Ingram tapped the sheriff on the shoulder and said, “Sir, Special Agent Williams is asking you a question.”

  Hall looked at Marcus and apologized. Then Marcus repeated his question, Hall gave an answer that shed no light on the investigation, and the briefing moved on. Andrew was proud of Marcus for how he had handled Hall. He had come a long way with utilizing local resources and working with a team. Andrew wished the Director was there to see Marcus conducting the briefing. Maybe that would have assuaged some of the old man’s concerns about Marcus’s stability in the field.

  Marcus said, “What about the Navarro family?”

  “Still no sign of them,” Sheriff Hall said. “No evidence. No trace. But finding them has been our top priority from the beginning.”

  “I’m going to be helping with that search personally. As for the rest of you, consider yourselves all part of the Foxbury Investigation Task Force. If I were an Old West marshal, I would say that you’ve all been deputized. And I have specific jobs for each of you.”

  Marcus ran down a list of action items for each person, mostly information gathering, and then he sent them all of on their individual assignments.

  After the briefing, as the dispersing group gathered papers and moved with purpose toward their new objectives, Andrew approached Marcus and said, “Nice job with the briefing.”

  Marcus replied, “I hate working with people. We need to get more cases where I can sit in a dark room alone with nothing but the evidence and the killer’s mind.”

  “That sounds both depressing and disturbing.”

  “What did you learn?”

  Andrew referred to his notes and said, “Bradley Reese, Powell’s public relations guy, is a bit of a narcissist, but I suppose that goes with the territory in his profession. The sheriff’s obviously worried and distracted about something.”

  “Yeah, could just be the pressure of such a high-profile investigation falling in his lap, but we’ll definitely have Stan dig into him too.”

  “Then there’s the guard who was sitting beside Ingram—”

  “The one who was present at the shooting.”

  “Right. He requested to be here. To help the investigation.”

  Marcus nodded. “Have Stan take an extra long look at him.”

  Andrew said, “We’re going to have to research every guard and every staff member. Any of them could have planted the bomb for Navarro to find.”

  “I don’t know. I think it would have taken a certain level of access.”

  Andrew added, “But I thought of something even more important during your briefing. Navarro told you that he was supposed to kill himself with the bomb and then the guy said he would let his family go. I initially thought that having Navarro kill himself was to lead the investigation down the wrong path. To throw us off his scent.”

  Marcus finished Andrew’s thought and said, “But if that were the case, then why call attention to himself with the note at the same time.”

  “Right. Because he’s not trying to throw us off. He just wanted Navarro dead for some reason.”

  Marcus hefted some of the file folders into his arms, but then he checked the name on each and laid them all back down. Andrew realized that Marcus had decided he didn’t need the files. He must have already scanned and committed them to memory. A couple of years prior, Andrew would have doubted Marcus’s eidetic abilities, but now he knew better. If Marcus had scanned them, then he would be able to recall them if the need should arise. Marcus had explained his memory like a never-ending reel of microfiche, the kind that old newspapers were stored on. Marcus didn’t remember the words on the pages, he remembered the images, the frames of the film.

  Marcus laid the files back on the conference table and said, “I already had the guards on Navarro doubled and told Spinelli to keep an eye on him.”

  Andrew said, “Okay, good. No one’s getting close to Navarro, but why does our puppet master want Navarro dead in the first place?”

  “My guess? Navarro knows something. He may not even know that he knows. But I’m betting that there is some detail, some clue, that Navarro has locked away inside him. Maybe he knows something that leads to our killer. Maybe he knows something that points us back to the location of his family. Either way, we have to figure out what that detail is.”

  “So how are we going to get him to remember it? All that trauma is too fresh in his mind.”

  Marcus cracked his neck. “Yeah, I’m afraid we’re going to have to go old school to get it out of him. I have a couple of ideas.”

  “He’s been through a lot. He’s a victim in this too.”

  “I know. But if our roles were reversed and that was me in his spot, I would want the investigators
to do whatever it took to find my family and the man responsible for this mess. I would endure whatever it took. Navarro and the info locked away inside him is the key to everything.”

  *

  Ackerman had been hooded and gagged, and so he couldn’t see the world around him. But his other senses were more than capable of filling in the gaps about his surroundings and situation. He felt the change in pressure and the landing gear hitting the runway. He heard the flight crew hooking up hoses, hydraulics whirring, the engines cooling, the metal creaking, breathing. He smelled the diesel of refueling trucks. His coffin-like transport container tilted and started moving. Ackerman gauged the distance they had traveled, catalogued the sounds of all the surfaces, and tucked away every voice and background noise alike. He could never know for sure when one of those details would give him an edge over an opponent or an opportunity to gain the upper hand.

  They arrived inside a hangar, and he was left in the same position for several minutes. To fill the time, Ackerman imagined different scenarios of him escaping in that moment. He imagined himself killing the owners of all those outside voices. He imagined their blood on his hands, in his mouth.

  Sometimes just playing out the scenarios in his mind was enough to sate the beast’s appetite. But other times, the urge to kill was too strong to be satisfied by a mental killing spree.

  Kill them and the pain will stop, his father’s voice in his head told him. The voice urged him to kill the first person he saw when he opened his eyes. And the next. And the next. And to never stop until someone stopped him.

  Ackerman ignored the voice. He intellectually rejected it. He isolated and analyzed the urge to kill and shoved it back down into the depths of his soul.

  But the longer he went without drinking in someone’s pain and fear, the louder his father’s voice became. The stronger that urge, that instinct, that wolf inside him became. He would never have admitted it to anyone, least of all his brother, but Francis Ackerman could almost feel himself losing his grip on the darkness inside himself. They called him the Man with No Fear, but if there was anything that had ever come close to truly frightening him, it was the monster within. The thing he became when he lost control.

  “That’s how we’re transporting him?” said a voice from outside his box, a voice Ackerman recognized.

  The Director added, “It looks like we’re sending Dracula through UPS.”

  After another few moments, Ackerman was free from darkness and being wheeled across an aircraft hangar where the Director and Maggie waited for him.

  He smiled at Maggie and said, “Hello, little sister.”

  She looked like she wanted to gouge his eyes out. “Stop calling me that. You and I are not related. Not by blood or marriage.”

  “I hope that doesn’t mean that you and my brother are having troubles. I could recommend a good counselor.”

  “Dr. Phil?”

  “Actually, I was thinking about me. I can be quite insightful.”

  The Director interrupted and said, “Okay, enough pleasantries.”

  Ackerman had noticed Philip’s gradual withering. But his aging seemed to have accelerated somehow, like all the cold of winter hitting a flower at once. The withering man went on to explain the ins and outs of Foxbury and its software and what had happened so far with the case. Ackerman listened patiently. Information was a tool, a weapon. And Ackerman liked to be well armed.

  His only question was, “Where do they get the data for the analysis software?”

  The Director said, “It comes from tamperproof bands on both wrists and ankles. I assume that it pumps back all kinds of vital signs to their software.”

  Ackerman tried to nod, but his head was still secured to the transport gurney. He said, “Blood pressure, heart rate, spikes in adrenaline, and other chemicals. All biological and involuntary signs that choreograph what that person will do in the next millisecond. The software just has to be faster in seeing those signs coming than that man’s body can complete the internal processes and take violent action. Sounds like a challenge.”

  Maggie stepped forward. The look on her face reminded Ackerman of a lioness protecting her cubs. She said, “Before you start getting any ideas about rising to meet that challenge, remember that this is your last chance. If you screw things up here, Marcus will no longer be able to protect you.”

  Ackerman laughed. “Why are all of you under the impression that I’m here for any other reason besides that I’ve chosen to be here? I’ve allowed you to cage me and poke and prod me and experiment on me like a lab rat. To be honest, the whole experience makes me feel nostalgic about my childhood.”

  The Director said, “We’ve never doubted your abilities, Ackerman. We just question your motives. You’re not here to test the prison’s security or prove that you’re the most frightening killer on the cell block. You want to be part of the team? You want to prove that you’re an asset? That you can be trusted? Here’s your chance. But being part of the team means following orders. Can you do that?”

  “I’m yours to command, my liege. I would bend a knee in fealty but, unfortunately, I’m still restrained.”

  “Can you follow orders?”

  “I promise. I’ll be a good boy. Well, maybe not ‘good,’ but at least moderately helpful. When it suits me.”

  The Director shook his head. “At least you’re honest. Here’s what we need you to do: find out everything you can about the inmates who were killed, this ULF leader who’s one of the other inmates, and keep your ear to the ground. Find out if there is any chatter among the population. Anything that seems strange. Gather intelligence and report back. That’s it. Stay under the radar.”

  “Got it. Murder the leader of the ULF and lead an uprising.” Ackerman gave Maggie a wink.

  The Director said, “If you try to murder or even touch anyone, you’ll be surfing a wave of a thousand volts before you can blink.”

  “I was just kidding. If we’re going to be working together, the two of you have to lighten up. Also, I thought you said that this place is filled with cameras. Why can’t they just monitor what the inmates have going on?”

  “Technically, I think they can. Problem is that they don’t have the staff to listen to every word by every inmate. The software can flag keywords and has a whole lot of other algorithms I’ll never understand for identifying potential threats and anger and escapes, but the bottom line is that you’re there to get a boots-on-the-ground feel for the inmates and whether anyone on the inside is connected to the killings.”

  Maggie said, “Only a few people will know that you’re working for us. Everyone else will believe you’re just another new prisoner. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  “What am I in for?”

  “Tax evasion,” Maggie said.

  “You’re joking.”

  “There’s a folder of fake background info you’ll need to study before the prison transport arrives,” the Director said. “The important thing is that you keep a low profile. You’re a spy, not a conquering warrior. And, most important, no one is to ever learn your real identity. Fagan, me, Marcus, and even your new friends at the CIA are all in agreement on that. If anyone finds out who you really are, it risks exposing us.”

  Ackerman smiled. “How exciting. I always wanted to be a secret agent.”

  *

  Ray Navarro stared at the piece of white paper and the black ballpoint pen resting in front of him. The paper was the kind used in copier machines—no lines, not designed for writing by hand. As he gazed at the white and line-less paper, he felt like he was drowning in a mar de blanco. The sea of white smothered him. He had so much to say but no idea what to write. It was difficult to sum up your entire life and your hopes and dreams in a few words. But he knew that the time he had to share those words was running out.

  The interrogation room had no clock, and so he had no idea how much time had truly passed. It felt like it had been days. But in regard to time, relativity made it difficult t
o judge such things.

  He kept thinking of his family. The man who had abducted them had told Ray that if he played his part then his family would be released unharmed. The man had explained the plan to Ray and had made him believe it. Their tormentor had said all the right things to assure him that there would be no reason to hurt Renata and Ian as long as the instructions were followed.

  Ray had been a good soldier. He could follow orders.

  And so far, Ray had done everything exactly as the man had directed.

  He had eliminated the targets, placed the bomb, attempted escape, and had kept silent until questioned by federal investigators. Then he told the investigator exactly what he had been instructed to say.

  The kidnapper had always stressed that killing Ray’s family did not advance his larger plans. They hadn’t seen his face. He had no reason to kill them.

  Ray kept repeating that to himself. Replaying the man’s words of assurance.

  If he completed his mission, his family would not be harmed.

  He had to believe it. He had no other choice but to believe. The alternatives were unthinkable.

  Still, he had doubts. He had started to second-guess himself and question if he could have done something differently or stopped this from happening.

  He thought of the thing that man had made him swallow. He rubbed his throat. The thought of ingesting that thing reminded him that his time could be short.

  He looked again at the paper.

  What to say?

  When his superiors had sent him overseas to kill, and die if necessary, he had gone gladly because he believed in what being a soldier meant. He believed in protecting his country, his home, and his family. And he would have laid down his life for those beliefs.

  In his mind, that was a death with meaning.

  Nothing had changed since then. He would have still sacrificed himself for the ones he loved and for what he believed. And that’s what he was doing.

  But how could he express that in words his young son and his wife could understand?

  He put pen to paper and started to write. His hand shook, and the words came out as big letters that would have taken up two or three whole ruled lines, if this paper had been made with lines.