by Chris Mooney
High-definition was not kind to Borgia. The pancake makeup gave his skin an unflattering orange tint; it did a poor job at hiding the dark and puffy circles underneath his tired eyes. Despite his exhaustion, Borgia spoke clearly, and well.
‘The task force assigned to find and apprehend Malcolm Fletcher received and acted on a credible tip. I can’t get into specifics about what happened or how he escaped – our investigation is still ongoing – but I can tell you that the evidence we’ve uncovered at this stage suggests that Malcolm Fletcher, in addition to killing one of Ali Karim’s employees, a man named Boyd Paulson, attempted to kill Karim himself before fleeing.’
Dan Harris raised an eyebrow, nodding. ‘I understand he also killed a member of the Hostage Rescue Team.’
‘That’s incorrect. We deployed gas into the house. One of our Hostage Team officers rushed up the steps to the first floor, and, because he couldn’t see clearly, made a wrong turn and fell over a banister. He landed the wrong way and was killed instantly.’ Borgia sighed, then added with real emotion: ‘It was an unfortunate accident, and our thoughts and prayers are with the man’s family.’
‘The victim, Ali Karim, is a well-known security expert and has an office here in New York. Why did Malcolm Fletcher target him?’
‘We haven’t ascertained why Malcolm Fletcher targeted him or his employees,’ Borgia said. ‘Our investigation is in the preliminary stages.’
‘Tell us about Malcolm Fletcher.’
‘He’s not an ordinary criminal. Before he became a federal agent, he trained as a Navy SEAL. He has considerable talents, especially in the area of surveillance and counter-surveillance – training which has assisted him in eluding law enforcement. He’s also a polyglot – he speaks multiple languages, which has allowed him live abroad and blend in without arousing suspicion.’
‘You’ve called him – and I quote – a rare combination of sociopath and psychopath.’
Borgia nodded. ‘Because of his background and training in psychology, he managed to evade detection by our screening process. That gives you an indication of just how highly intelligent he is. People who knew him described him as a loner – and emotionally impenetrable.
‘While he worked as a profiler, he was suspected of murdering mass murderers and serial killers – cases he was working on. When the Bureau discovered what he was doing, we sent three agents to his home to question him.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Fletcher attacked them. One agent is still on life-support.’
‘And the other two agents?’
‘We don’t know what happened to them,’ Borgia said. ‘They disappeared.’
‘And during all these years as a fugitive, what has he been up to, do you know?’
‘Fletcher has become, in his own right, a very dangerous serial killer. As long as he’s out there, no one is safe. We need the public’s help to find him. The federal government is offering a three-million-dollar reward to the person offering information leading to Fletcher’s capture and arrest.’
‘This picture we’re about to show, is it a recent picture?’
‘This is the last picture we have of him. Before Fletcher disappeared, he had taken the extraordinary steps of erasing all information about himself from the Bureau – this happened before computers and databases were as prevalent as they are today. Everything existed on paper.
‘Malcolm Fletcher has one distinguishing characteristic, as you’re about to see,’ Borgia said. ‘One that’s impossible to disguise.’
63
Malcolm Fletcher’s face appeared on the LED screens overlooking Times Square. The picture showed him with short black hair and a face composed of chiselled-granite angles. He wasn’t wearing contact lenses. His strange, black eyes stared down at the surrounding streets.
Many people stopped to watch. Others shivered and turned away, quickening their pace.
Dan Harris’s voice spoke over Malcolm Fletcher’s photograph: ‘Explain the man’s eyes, what happened?’
‘We honestly don’t know,’ Borgia said. ‘Unfortunately, there’s nothing on file in Bureau records as to the nature of this medical condition. The specialists we spoke with are divided. Some believe it’s either ocular melanocytosis or pigment-dispersion syndrome, both congenital diseases which cause an unusual dispersion of dark pigmentation in the eyes. There’s also ocular siderosis, caused by iron toxicity. The lack of colour in the eyes could simply be an aberrant genetic mutation.’
‘A birth defect, in other words.’
‘A rare, one-of-a-kind birth defect.’ Borgia paused for emphasis, then continued. ‘This defect will allow us to find him.’
‘What about contact lenses?’
‘It’s a possibility. However, when he worked for the Bureau, he made no effort to disguise his condition. Another former profiler told us that Fletcher said he was allergic to contacts. If Fletcher is, in fact, wearing contacts they’ll be specially made ones that cover the entire eye. We’ve seen some created by Hollywood prop makers, and even the best ones can’t mimic the human eye – the tiny blood vessels, etcetera. If you get close enough, you can see that they’re fake.’
‘Let’s read off that toll-free number.’
A small crowd of scrawny Goth teenagers dressed in black leather jackets and hoodies had gathered across the street from ABC’s massive LED screens. Heavily tattooed and pierced, they pounded cans of Red Bull in between chain-smoking cigarettes to counter the downing effects of alcohol and ecstasy. T. J., a reedy man with a blue Mohawk and pierced lips, was the first to speak: ‘Jesus, that dude’s a freak.’
The man standing near by glanced in his direction. T. J. couldn’t see the eyes. Dude was wearing sunglasses.
T. J. looked away, feeling his scrotum tightening. He had noticed the guy coming out of the coffee shop. Something about the dude gave off this, like, primal reaction that made T. J. want to turn and start walking in the opposite direction – quickly.
Maybe it was the guy’s size. Dude was built like a brick shithouse – tall and ferociously solid underneath that stylish John Varvatos look he was rocking: scuffed black boots with a grey tie worn against a chambray shirt; a black scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He wore black leather gloves and a fedora that gave him that cool and edgy New York artist look.
The only woman in the group stared at the picture of Malcolm Fletcher on the TV screens and said, ‘I think he’s kind of hot.’
‘Hold up,’ another man said. ‘You think this guy’s good looking?’
‘He’s got a sexy face,’ she said. ‘Strong jaw and nice cheekbones. I’m just saying.’
T. J. saw the big dude with the sunglasses dump his coffee into a bin and start to walk towards them. T. J. waved a hand to shut up his friends.
The stranger stepped up next to them. ‘Excuse me,’ he said with some sort of accent – British, maybe. ‘I was wondering if I might take a quick look at that.’ He pointed to the New York Times tucked underneath the girl’s arm.
‘You can have it,’ she said. ‘I just buy it for the Books section.’
The man thanked her and wished them all a good day. T. J. breathed a sigh of relief when the dude walked away.
Malcolm Fletcher didn’t have to hunt for the story. The New York Times had printed his headshot above the fold so the news of his escape wouldn’t be missed. His picture covered nearly a quarter of the paper. The title read ‘American Nightmare’.
The story was long on speculation and short of facts; it reeked of bureaucratic rote. The Bureau’s PR executives were working overtime to spin the botched raid.
The last paragraph encapsulated the same lies Alexander Borgia had spouted on that morning’s TV programme: ‘Malcolm Fletcher defies characterization, at least in any textbook sense. On one hand, he’s a very clever and highly intelligent sociopath who lacks any sense of moral responsibility or social conscience. He’s also an extremely cunning and manipulative psychopath. He’s unable to feel
normal human emotions such as love and empathy.’
Fletcher made his way up Seventh Avenue, heading for Central Park. On his way into the city, he had changed into clothing more suited to walking around New York during daylight. The old clothing went inside a department-store bag, which he had tossed into a dumpster. The tactical belt went inside the new backpack. After ditching the white BMW by the side of a busy street, he had wandered for the good part of an hour before finding a suitable vehicle to take him to New York. He had ditched that one inside a parking lot a few blocks away.
Fletcher checked his watch. He had plenty of time.
He found a department store and quickly purchased the clothing he needed. He declined the shopping bag; instead, he neatly folded the clothing inside his backpack.
Inside a drugstore he purchased two disposable, pre-charged cell phones with sixty minutes of talk time, a mail folder, a marker pen and a copy of Newsweek. He found a diner, sat in a quiet corner and activated both phones. He wrote his number on M’s phone and sealed it inside the mailer.
After breakfast, Fletcher continued up Seventh Avenue. He turned right on to Central Park South and entered the busy lobby of the New York Athletic Club. The older gentleman standing behind the reception smiled pleasantly, eager to help.
‘One of your members, Emma White, asked me to deliver this to the front desk,’ Fletcher said, and placed the sealed mailer on the countertop. ‘She asked that you place it inside her mail box.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Fletcher left and stood by the lobby windows. Five minutes later, he looked across the street and saw M waiting in the prearranged spot.
64
M sat on the bleached-stone wall surrounding Central Park, her head tucked down as she examined her cell phone. She wore a bulky winter parka with nylon leggings and trainers. A pair of oval sunglasses covered her eyes. The strap of a gym bag was draped across her shoulder, the signal that she hadn’t been followed.
Still, Fletcher needed to be sure she was clean. He placed the copy of Newsweek flat on top of the folded newspaper and held them in his right hand as he exited the building. He crossed the street, dodging his way around a parked horse and carriage offering a scenic tour of the city, and walked past her. He dropped the newspaper and magazine into a kerbside bin and strode away. He didn’t turn to watch her.
He moved to a grouping of pull-cart pavement vendors, their green-and-white carts and umbrellas advertising the same slogan: KEEP OUR PARKS CLEAN. He wandered a few feet away to another group of vendors selling cheaply framed pictures of Manhattan. He perused the selections, tracking time in his head.
When fifteen minutes had passed, Fletcher sat on the wall and pretended to check messages on his smartphone. Behind his sunglasses he watched the entrance to the New York Athletic Club.
At the twenty-minute mark M came through the front doors, dressed in new attire: black yoga pants and a different pair of trainers. A bulky grey hoodie covered her white hair. Another pair of sunglasses concealed her eyes. She moved to the corner to hail a cab.
Fletcher watched the area closely.
It took her five minutes to get a cab. It pulled away and he kept watching.
He waited another ten minutes.
She was clean.
Fletcher stood and then went to hail a cab of his own. He had to wait nearly twenty minutes.
Climbing into the back, he leaned forward and gave the driver an address in the Howard Beach area in Queens. On the passenger’s seat he saw stapled pages showing his Most Wanted picture and the three-million-dollar reward for information leading to his capture.
Traffic was mercifully slow; he wouldn’t reach his destination for quite some time. He leaned sideways across the backseat, closed his eyes and dozed. He came awake sometime later to the trill of his disposable cell.
Fletcher glanced at his watch as he reached into his pocket. A little over an hour had passed.
‘I’m clean,’ M said. ‘I’m on the Long Island Expressway, driving a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. I borrowed it from a friend. It has no connection to Karim’s company. Now tell me where I’m heading.’
Fletcher gave her the address. ‘Call me when you arrive,’ he said and hung up.
Forty minutes later, Fletcher arrived at his destination. He paid the driver in cash, along with a generous tip, and exited the cab.
The exterior of the Bayside Motel was still the same drab stucco he’d first seen decades ago, but the interior had been renovated. It had a dimly lit lobby and the owner had tried to brighten it up with silk flowers placed inside wicker baskets.
The motel still catered to budget-conscious clientele, the majority of whom appeared to be foreigners. Even better, a young staff manned the reception desk. In his experience, this wired generation, plugged into their phones, iPods and computers, barely looked beyond their constant texts, emails and phone calls to examine the world around them. They rarely read the newspapers or watched the news – a fact evidenced by the dwindling subscriptions and news ratings that continued their precipitous slide month after month, year after year.
The young woman behind the front desk had long, clean brown hair that carried a lingering trace of coconut. Fletcher spoke in broken English, his accent clearly suggesting he had travelled there from France. He explained he had been mugged during the early-morning hours and had just returned from the hospital. He didn’t have a reservation but enquired about a room, possibly one on the ground floor so he wouldn’t have to climb any stairs.
The woman, sympathetic to his plight, checked for vacancies. Fletcher checked the lobby for security cameras. He didn’t find any, but behind the front desk he found a colour picture of himself resting on a computer-printer tray.
The woman had a ground-floor room available. She insisted on a licence and credit card. He gave her the passport for Richard Munchel and insisted on paying in cash. She agreed, and gave him a plastic keycard. Fletcher thanked her in his mangled English and courteously declined the porter’s offer to assist him to his room.
On the bed he placed the clothing he’d purchased in Manhattan. He took a shower and redressed in the same clothing but exchanged his fedora for a woolly hat. He tucked his sunglasses inside his jacket pocket and put on a pair of glasses with tinted lenses dark enough to hide his eyes.
From his backpack he removed a small digital recorder and placed it underneath the bed. He took the backpack with him and left the hotel.
Cross Bay Boulevard was heavy with fast-moving traffic on both sides. He waited for a break, crossed and then made his way to a diner. He sat at the counter and drank coffee as he read the New York Post. His picture had also made their front page, printed under the banner title ‘Disgraceful!’ The Post had decided to focus on the botched raid, citing the FBI’s inability to catch fugitives, Malcolm Fletcher being the latest example.
From his seat Fletcher had a clear, unobstructed view of the motel. He had started in on his third cup of coffee when the disposable cell rang.
65
Fletcher brought the phone up to his ear as he watched a black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows pull into the motel parking lot.
‘Are you inside the motel?’ M asked.
‘Ground floor, Room 7.’
She hung up. Fletcher watched her step out of the SUV holding a different gym bag. She had changed her appearance again: a black motorcycle jacket with jeans and black boots. The New York Yankees baseball cap she wore low across her face covered most of her hair, her eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator-style sunglasses.
She disappeared inside the motel. If the FBI had her under surveillance and had managed to follow her here, they would make their move now. They would surround the motel and go in armed. Fletcher left the money for the bill on the counter.
Outside, he moved to the back of the diner and then threaded his way through parked cars and dumpsters until he reached the alley next to a bait-and-tackle shop closed for the winter season
. He watched the motel from the alley. If anything happened, he had plenty of avenues of escape.
Minutes passed and no vehicles entered the motel parking lot.
His phone rang and he didn’t answer it.
Fletcher’s well-honed instincts told him she hadn’t been tailed. But the FBI had found her townhouse address, and, for all he knew, they had also found her. For all he knew, she had been apprehended and Alexander Borgia had offered her a deal: give him up and Karim would be spared prosecution. For all he knew, she had taken the deal in order to protect the person she loved and trusted the most.
Unlikely, yes, but not outside the realms of possibility. Fletcher had survived all these years by living by one simple law: trust no one. He did not know M, and he did not share Karim’s ability to trust. There was too much riding on this next part.
His phone rang again and he answered it.
‘Where are you?’ she demanded.
‘On the bed you’ll find clothing that I purchased for you. I had to estimate your sizes, so you’ll forgive me if they don’t fit properly. After you put them on, I want you to dump your clothing inside the bathtub and turn on the water. Hold the phone up to the water so I can hear it running.’
‘You think I’m working with the Feds?’ She sounded more confused than angry. ‘You think I have some sort of GPS or tracking –’
‘A man in my position has to be very careful. I’m sure you understand.’
No answer.
She had hung up.
Fletcher did not call her back. If she didn’t call him back, he would have to move on without her.
He’d give her ten minutes.
Six minutes later, his phone rang.
‘I changed into the clothes you left,’ she said. ‘The clothes I wore here are in the tub. Listen.’ He heard running water and then she came back on the line. ‘What’s next?’
‘Leave everything inside the room – wallet, car keys, gym bag.’
