by Leslie Wolfe
“Understood, Agent Winnett. What’s his name?”
She looked straight into Bartlett’s eyes as she said his name, ready to catch any flicker of recognition. “Esteban Carrillo, twenty-eight years old, from Miami.”
There was a tiny flinch in his eyelids, and probably his pupils dilated too, but it was hard to see in the moonlight. Tess had no doubt; Bartlett knew Carrillo.
“I’ll make sure Mr. Carrillo isn’t distracting your team any longer, Agent Winnett.”
“Thank you,” she said, shaking the hand he had extended, then turning to leave. As she did, she caught a glimpse of reflected light coming from the tree across the driveway, next to the street. She froze, then moved her head slowly back and forth, trying to capture that flicker of reflected moonlight again.
“What is it?” Bartlett asked, to her dismay holding a nine mil Sig in his hand.
“Jeez, put that gun away,” she urged him. “Now,” she insisted, seeing his hesitation.
He complied, shoving the gun in his belt and pulling his shirt over it. “My apologies, Agent Winnett. After everything that’s happened, we’re all a little jumpy. What did you see?”
“There,” she pointed at the tree. “See it? Something is reflecting the light. Maybe your bodyguard could check it out, and whatever he finds, he should remove with gloves on,” she added, offering a pair of blue latex gloves she fished out of her pocket.
Bartlett knocked on the door twice, and the bodyguard appeared instantly. A moment later, he recovered a small camera from the tree, and Tess held out an evidence bag to collect it.
“It was still working,” the guard said. “I turned it off.”
Bartlett grabbed the guard by his lapel and shoved him against the wall. “How the hell was this possible? Find out.”
“My guess is that’s been sitting up there for a while, probably since before April 15,” Tess intervened, and Bartlett let go of the man’s lapel. “Our technicians will look into it.”
She turned to leave again, and this time almost made it to the Explorer when her phone rang, displaying Donovan’s name on the screen.
“Better get in front of an internet-connected device pronto,” he said. “The unsub’s site is up, and you won’t believe what he’s asking viewers to vote for.”
41
Time Gap
Tess rushed through the doors and up the stairs to the precinct conference room, then hooked up the laptop to the TV screen and powered everything up, out of breath and feeling a sense of doom, cringing in dread of what she was about to discover on that screen.
She clicked on the link Donovan had placed in her messenger and the Taker’s site filled the screen. She dialed Donovan and put him on speaker.
“Tell me we’re set up to control this,” she said, grinding the words angrily between her teeth.
“To some extent we are,” he replied. “The short list model isn’t finalized yet; I’m still not close enough when running simulations against the already known victims. This new case will bring more information and it will help, but—”
“But she’ll have to die to make that happen,” Tess snapped.
A long moment of silence filled the air. “Most likely she’s already dead, Winnett, whoever she might be.”
She wanted to scream at Donovan, but she knew better; he wasn’t the one to blame, nor was it his job to make her feel better. Not to mention she’d recently apologized for her bad temper already, and that was enough.
“We’re set up with several identities who can post on the Taker’s site, under a number of profiles. I’ve started poking at him, but for now he won’t engage. I have a truck driver from Louisiana, a self-proclaimed, antisocial SOB; some other guy calling himself the midnight rapist, and so on. I’ll send you the list, if you’d like, but you catch my drift.”
She scrolled through the list of comments and found the accounts Donovan was referencing. So far, he’d been moderate in his comments; he’d challenged the veridity of the streamed materials, asked the Taker to show some courage and identify himself, show his real face, stuff like that.
The Taker of Lives was too smart for that; it was never going to work.
She needed to pour gasoline on the fire of his bleeding ego.
“Cat told me something today,” Tess said. “He—”
“That hippie bartender from… what’s that place?” Donovan asked. “Since when is he an expert?”
“Since he’s been staring at people for decades, while they drink themselves under the table, foregoing their frontal lobe function on a regular basis.”
“Ah, interesting,” he replied, no longer sounding dismissive of Cat’s input. She could hear the smile and the curiosity in his voice.
“Cat said he’d have no problem figuring out what his drunks would vote for, if they were asked to pick their favorite booze. He stares at that data every day, and it never changes.”
“You’re saying…?”
“The unsub has a background in psychology or sociology. It’s possible he worked with inmates, or studied the behaviors of social groups, entities, or representative segments of the population, the type who would most likely troll the Dark Web for sites like his. Does that help narrow it down?”
She could hear Donovan typing fast, and she held her breath.
“No, nothing really pops up,” he replied.
She turned her attention to the screen. “Then let’s work with what we have.”
She scrolled back up, from the comment list into the streaming frame of the site, taking in every detail.
“What the hell?” she muttered. “He can’t possibly have known this.”
The screen displayed a quick invitation to vote, displayed in the same white font on black background, followed by three buttons. The invitation read, “Our guest star is guilty of condescending arrogance. How would you like her punished tonight?”
The three buttons were clipart images with a text label. The first option showed a symbolic photograph, the kind of pictogram used by online photo sharing sites, and the label read, “Expose Her Secrets.” The second option showed the sketched contour of a female head, the kind that social media platforms use as a default avatar until people customize their profiles, but the Taker had crossed it with two diagonal lines. The label read, “Destroy Her Image.” Finally, the third one showed the pictogram of a handgun, and the label read, “Take Her Life.”
She felt a rush of heated blood course through her veins, as she processed all the information. Could he have known that his sick viewers would want that girl dead? How could he? What kind of world is that, where people can vote in the millions to end an innocent girl’s life?
The Taker asked for five million votes to support whatever choice the public wanted, but the third option had already collected well over seven million votes, and the counter was moving so fast that the last two digits were illegible. The first two options hadn’t reached a million votes each; apparently, humans had turned into a bloodthirsty, violent species; at least a significant percentage of them.
Tess forced air into her lungs, then let it out sharply. “Okay, let’s work this. Can a viewer vote for more than one option?”
Donovan took a second, then replied, “No. Only the first vote is recorded.”
“That means each of these votes are distinct individuals?”
“Precisely. Just like yesterday.”
She swallowed a curse and stared at the screen, observing, analyzing, playing with scenarios in her mind.
“And we can’t track down these bastards, you said.”
“No,” Donovan replied. “The vast majority of them are visiting the site via encrypted browsing, and even if you could, filing millions of lawsuits just isn’t feasible. Not all are American, you know. Not to mention, most of them probably think this is just a weird, perverted show.”
“Just like herds,” she muttered, and at that moment, Fradella rushed through the door. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” s
he said. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Michowsky said he’s fine on his own, and I’m needed here.”
“What do you mean, just like herds?” Donovan asked.
“The larger the herd, the smaller the individual’s probability of being attacked by a predator,” she explained. “That means, the more votes the unsub collects, the more likely are the reluctant viewers to vote, believing they’re safe. Unfortunately, they really are safe from prosecution.”
“What do you want to do?” Fradella asked.
She hesitated for a moment, then replied, her voice filled with fierce determination. “I’m going to make this sick son of a bitch regret the day he was born. D, why don’t you write a comment, saying, ‘Ha, ha, we know you’re a fake. You ain’t streaming live. Yesterday’s guest star was killed ten days ago. No balls on you.’ Got that?”
“You sure about this?” Donovan asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” she replied, feeling nervous tension grab her shoulders in a vise and squeezing.
A moment later, the unsub had replied. “Real art is ageless and timeless, my friend.”
“He doesn’t care,” Fradella said.
“He does,” Tess said, “otherwise, he wouldn’t’ve responded at all. Say this, ‘So you say, but your sack’s empty. Got guts? Stream live!’”
Fradella whistled. “Where did that come from?”
She threw a quick smile his way, a little embarrassed. “Now use your other identities to vote for this statement, D. Vote it up as high as you can.” She saw a bunch of votes appear, endorsing the challenge, but she still wanted more. “Doesn’t the FBI have a click farm of sorts somewhere?”
“They do?” Fradella asked.
“Don’t think so,” Donovan replied. “But I’ll add more accounts if you need me to.”
“Yup, add them. Now post another comment, saying, ‘Show us proof it’s live. We’re not idiots.’”
Within moments, the message collected about twenty thumbs up.
“I’m not doing this,” Donovan said. “I’m doing part of it, but I’m not the only one voting.”
“Excellent, they’re starting to follow,” Tess replied, keeping her eyes riveted to the screen. “Now say in a new comment, ‘Right. If you’re really live, you should take requests for action,’ then add a winking smiley.”
A few seconds later, the unsub replied, “Great idea. How many votes can I get for that? Show me what you can do!” The speed at which the votes collected increased visibly.
“Damn,” Tess muttered. Nothing seemed to faze the unsub. He kept on being calm, rational, organized, and every word he typed and every action he took confirmed the profile of a deadly, cold-blooded psychopath. One who was almost as good as she was at profiling people, at understanding the drivers of human behavior.
“Do you think we’re reaching him?” Fradella asked, powering up his own laptop.
“We should be,” Tess replied. “By all the rules in the book, we should be. For all we know, he could be punching a wall right now, screaming in anger.” She paced the room restlessly. “Or he could be lying back, relaxed, getting ready to stream the video of something he’s done who knows when, and we don’t even know about it. We need to close the gap, guys. Any ideas welcome.”
“What gap?” Donovan asked.
“Between the time of the assault and the time of the streaming. Maybe that’s what this weekend is all about. Have you noticed how the time gap is narrowing? The first victim, Christina Bartlett, was assaulted on April 15, yet he didn’t tell her about the photos online until three days ago; that’s almost six weeks. Then Estelle, assaulted on May 10, was notified of the exposure two days ago. Only two weeks after Christina, not even that. Yesterday, we had Deanna, and the video of her murder was released only ten days after the fact. Now we have—” she gestured toward the TV.
“You think this one’s been attacked more recently?” Fradella said.
“Definitely so,” Tess said. She sighed, sending her frustration away on a long breath of air. “Let’s talk short list. What’s going on there, Donovan? What’s the holdup?”
“I’ve managed to create a model for his victim selection, but when I run it, I only achieve sixty-seven percent accuracy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I can make the model give me Christina and Deanna, but not Estelle, and I can’t understand why. I’ve added the respective social media following numbers for the individuals, and filtered out duplicates, as much as I could identify them. Most people don’t know, or don’t care about protecting their privacy.”
“Just a second,” Fradella intervened, “you said you’ve eliminated duplicates? Why? How?”
“Let’s say Jane Doe follows Deanna on Facebook, on Twitter, and on Instagram. I’ve only counted her once. If people are what the unsub is after, fame, as the profile indicates, that’s what he’d do.”
“Um, nope,” Tess replied. “He only cares about perceptions, not reality. People don’t mean anything to him. The more perceived fame the victims have, the more pissed off the unsub is, motivated to destroy their lives. Ego doesn’t have that much logic; a bruised ego is nothing but raw, raging emotion.”
Donovan typed fast, and Tess could’ve sworn she’d heard him cuss under his breath, an absolute first for the brilliant analyst. A minute or two later, he stopped clacking on the keyboard. “It will take some doing, to revert the duplicates removal from the profile analyzer, but I’ll do it ASAP. You might be on to something, Winnett.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Let’s post another message and raise more hell. Say this: ‘What a cowardly way to act, with the women drugged, subdued. Are you that powerless? Afraid of a woman’s scream? Or are you really into corpses?’”
“All right,” Donovan said, then typed the message that immediately posted online. “Are we the least bit concerned we might be pushing him into becoming more violent?”
“We are, and we aren’t,” Tess replied, watching the thumbs up accumulate on the newly posted prod. “So far, he’s streamed crimes that had already been committed; there’s no risk with those. How else are we going to catch him, unless we enrage him into making a mistake?”
“Are we?” Fradella asked.
She sighed, a bitter exhalation matching a growing frown on her brow. “Don’t ask.”
The screen shifted to a quick animation of theater curtains being pulled, and a video streaming frame came into sight. Tess and Fradella huddled closer to the TV screen, trying to make out the victim’s face.
The setting showed the same kind of layout as before: a young woman, naked on her bed, unconscious. The room was relatively large and neat, decorated with taste, with Italian furniture and fixtures in modern style, bright colors, glossy finishes, and brushed metal. The space was artificially lit, with projectors that sent light from behind the camera to focus on certain areas of her body. It was almost artistic, although Tess hated to admit it. No trace of daylight came into the room, as attested by the window covered with modern, remote-controlled treatments.
“Guys, we have a problem,” Tess groaned. “She’s a brunette. That simple fact expands our victimology threefold.”
“I saw that,” Donovan replied. “I’ve removed the blonde hair as a physical feature and our list of potentials is up to almost eight thousand names.”
They watched as the unsub’s silhouette, clad in black, shiny latex, positioned the victim on the bed, then stood to the side, as if admiring his handiwork. He then took a handgun from his duffel bag and checked the magazine, removed and inserted it with expert movements, then pulled the slide back and immediately released it. The weapon was ready to fire.
“Talk to me, guys,” she said, already knowing there was nothing much they could do.
“The gun is a Smith and Wesson M2.0 nine mil, equipped with a silencer,” Fradella said. “Maybe if we enhance some of this video, we could grab a serial number.”
“On it,” Donovan confirmed.<
br />
Then the unsub put the gun aside and grabbed one of the vials he’d placed on the night table, just as he’d done in Deanna’s case. Doc Rizza had told them that the vial contained ammonia inhalants, or smelling salts, meant to revive the victim quickly. He approached the girl and covered her mouth with one hand, running the vial under her nose. She gasped and flailed her arms, trying to grab on to something, but the unsub’s grip was strong. She stared at the killer with eyes open wide in terror, and he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.
That was the first time they’d had the opportunity to see her face.
“Got the screenshot,” Donovan announced, “running facial recognition now.”
Then the unsub took his gun and pointed it at the victim, while placing his left index finger at his mouth, urging her to stay silent. She nodded once or twice, her eyes rounded in fear, pleading.
“Please,” she must have whispered, based on the movement of her lips, but the audio didn’t catch much of her voice.
The unsub took aim at her head and stretched his arms in a firing stance, supporting his weapon with both hands.
“Please, I’ll do anything,” she said, now audible on the video, while tears streamed down her cheeks.
The screen went dark just as the weapon fired, the sound of the silenced shot seeming so loud it made Tess jump out of her skin.
“I can’t take this anymore!” Tess shouted, pushing aside a chair so forcefully it slammed into the wall where it left a mark. “We sit here and watch the damn TV, eat whatever he’s feeding us. Don’t tell me he gets away with it again.”
“Maybe he didn’t kill her,” Fradella offered. “We would’ve known about it. The video cut before we could see for sure. Maybe she’s still alive.”
“We don’t know that,” she replied, a dark shade of frustration seeping into her voice. “We don’t know a damn thing!”
42
Haley
Exhaustion was starting to show its effects, clouding Tess’s judgment and fueling her anger. Since Christina’s suicide, she’d caught little shuteye and even less sustenance. She’d pushed herself, thinking one more hour, one more suspect interview, and she’d catch the perp and be able to resume her planned vacation.
