“I guess I should start by explaining to you what I do. Like I said I’m an actress. For slasher films. I’m known as a ‘scream queen’” she said using her fingers to hang invisible quotes over the title. I also own and am the editor of a magazine for those types of movies. Called Rue Morgue. As you can imagine, being a woman, in that industry tends to attract a lot of attention from… Well creeps really. Mentally ill people in some cases. I’ve seen it all believe me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, so I get this video…” she began to tear up and fanned uselessly her eyes with her well manicured hands. “I’m sorry… it’s just… Oh god… This is so fucked up... Maybe I should just show you.” She said and waited for a response.
“Sure,” he said. What else could he say?
She left and returned with a laptop which she placed on the coffee table and set closer to him so they could both see the screen. She hit play on the media player and the video began. Jeremy waited patiently as the first minute passed. It was nothing but an empty white room. Then Mister stepped into frame. His white ghoulish face sneering scornfully at the two of them from the screen. Jeremy quickly looked up at Mary and he could see by her face, that this was real. Or that at least she believed it was.
Mary couldn’t bring herself to watch it. She turned away from the screen.
“That girl is my niece.”
He watched the horror unfold. The pliers, the screaming, Mister's little speech.
If you go to the police. If you tell anyone. I will kill her. I will kill her in the most creative and painful way I can think of. And trust me. I will know. I know more then you could possible realize.
She could see on his face the moment when it all clicked into place for him. She received the video from Mister who has abducted her niece. She had either already read the article or found it online after the fact, and felt that he could help her in some way, without running the risk of contacting the police, as Mister warned her not to.
Jeremy stood up, suddenly uber alert while Mary just stared down at the floor, softly crying.
“Since you’ve gone through all this to speak with me, I’m going to guess you haven’t contacted the police?”
She shook her head.
“How long ago did you receive this?”
“Four days.”
“Four days?” He exploded, and then quickly caught himself. “And the girl’s parents?” he asked. She shook her head again for no.
“Mary, you can’t just do nothing. You can’t just wait.”
“I know! That’s why I came to see you!”
“Well what do you think I can do?”
“You’re a forensic psychologist. You worked on this case. You can help me figure out what he wants.”
“Yes I am a forensic psychologist and I've done profiling for the FBI but I’m not a criminal investigator. It's not like the movies. Criminal profiling does not catch criminals. It's simply a tool to aid investigators. And I haven’t worked on this case. The man in that video is not Victor Matherport.”
“I’m so sorry!” She said bursting out again into long painful sobs.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll figure this out,” he finally had to assure just to get her to stop.
“Tell me what to do, Tell me what I should do.”
“Well, for starters you have to call the FBI and after that you have to inform her parents.”
She looked up at him, he mascara starting to run and soil her sad, beautiful face.
“Okay. Okay I will call them. He just can’t find out… If he kills Cindy….”
Mary hoped he understood her indecision. It was pretty obvious Mister had been following and watching her. How else would he know who her niece was? She was sure Dr. Foster knew what a terrifying situation this was for her. Hell, she would bet that if Mister had fixed his psychopathic fixation onto him he would move clear cross the country to get away from him. He’d probably move to Canada. He’d be watching hockey and wearing mittens by Tuesday.
“Okay listen. I will go to the Bureau for you. I know the guy that is in charge of the Mister case.”
“You see! That’s why I came to you. I knew you could help me. Thank you so much Jeremy.”
She came close and wrapped her arms around him. It was the kind of hug a girl may give her father after he had screamed at her for being bad. He looked down at her sorrowful face, could feel her firm body quivering against his with each soft sob. He knew it was all kinds of wrong but he couldn't help but be strangely intoxicated by her beauty and vulnerability. Or maybe it was more about his own vulnerability. Either way, he needed to leave. He wiped the mascara from under her eyes with his thumbs.
“I will go speak with them first thing in the morning. I will call you as soon as I'm done. They are going to want to meet with you. Don't worry. It won't be anywhere public.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I better get going. Stay here. Don't go out for food, nothing, order in.”
“Believe me, I wasn't planning on going anywhere.”
He went to leave then stopped and asked, “Do you own a gun?”
“Yeah, I do actually.”
“Good. Keep it loaded. But be careful.”
She saw him to the door, and then let herself fall onto to the couch, the first glimmer of hope in days starting to ease the tension in her heart, but Jeremy’s last piece of advice kept repeating in her head negating her mild elation. Keep it loaded, keep it loaded.
CHAPTER 17
“Is it everyone's first day?” Simon asked looking up at his mother and blinking nervously as she packed her little boy’s first school lunch into a Buck Rogers lunch box.
“Well everyone in your class, yes. But there are other kids who have already been in Kindergarten.” Becky explained handing him the lunch box then took a moment to straighten out his shirt for him.
“Am I going to make friends,” he asked, his squeaky voice so hopeful that it broke her heart.
“Of course you are,” She said, hoping herself that it wasn't a lie. Becky and Jacob had already come to grips with the fact that their boy was different. The other children his age in the neighbourhood would be out playing catch, or tag or whatever it is boys do, and Simon would be indoors, scribbling in his journal. And if they forced him to play outside he would just sit and watch the other boys, or sit and think. Or at least Becky thought he was thinking, but of what, God only knew.
So it didn't come as a terrible shock when the bullying began at school, and while they didn't know exactly what was being said or done to him, it did seem to be worse than they imagined it would.
Some days Simon would come home and go straight to his room and cry for hours, which only seemed to make his father angry.
“You can't let people hurt you boy,” his father instructed one night as they were going to bed. “People are mean. They will do whatever they want to you if you let them. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Papa. I understand.”
Though they both knew a simple explanation such as that was not going to imbue in him the kind of courage he needed to stand up for himself. And they were right.
The boys in kindergarten had started taking to calling Simon ‘the worm’. Simon couldn't say why and neither Becky nor Jacob could figure it. Then, on one random night, after Simon had gone to bed, Jacob had a theory. He was sitting by the radio, the always present bottle of beer in his hand, as if holding one for so long caused them to start growing right from his palm.
“Cuz he's got no spine,” he said to Becky between long thoughtful sips.
“Sorry what?”
“They call him the worm cuz he ain't got no spine.”
Though whether or not that was why he was called the worm they never knew and neither did Simon. What he did know though, was that there really must have been something wrong with him. If one or two kids didn't like him, well that was one thing, but none of them seemed to and he was pretty sure he knew why.
He was shy. Painfully so and even when he understood he was being shy and would try to make the effort to be friendly but his words had a way of coming out strangely and awkward. So maybe his father was right. Maybe he did have to be more like them. Loud and mean if need be. So he tried sticking up for himself in the playground and told them to leave him alone, but it never worked. In fact it just made it worst.
“What did I tell you?!” His father screamed and stomped into the living room where Simon was watching cartoons, one day after Becky told him about the most recent incident. They were calling him the worm again at recess and Simon tried to stick up for himself. He yelled at them and told them to stop, which the boys took as their cue to hold him down and slap his face until he cried.
“What did I tell you?” His father bellowed, leaning over top of him like a big angry ogre.
“I tried papa. I tried to tell them to stop.”
“Jacob you're drunk! You're scaring him!” His mother said from where she watched at a safe distance.
“Oh you told them to stop!? Did I tell you to tell them anything?”
And Simon was too scared to answer but his father insisted.
“Well?!”
“No you told me to hit them back.”
“So did you do what I told you?!”
“No papa.”
“Why?”
“Because I was scared,” Simon confessed and began to cry. He was just a boy. Why wasn't he allowed to be scared? Why wouldn't his father just go find the boys himself? He was sure they would be way more scared of his did than they ever would be of him.
“You should be scared of me! Not them! A bully only understands one thing boy. That's violence. You want to live your life being scared all the time? Being a victim?!”
He had never seen his father this angry before. It was like he wasn't even the same person.
“Jacob please!” Becky cried from the kitchen doorway.
“You shut up!” He said glaring back at her from over his heaving shoulder. “This ain't got nothing to do with you. This is what we're gonna go,” he said turning back to Simon and grabbing his t-shirt by the collar. “Every time you get picked on at school and you don't stand up for yourself like I said, I'm going beat on you when you come home. You want that?! Huh? You prefer that?!”
“No Daddy please!” Simon shrieked and began to weep so bad that snot and tears soaked his face from cheeks to chin.
“Look at you. No wonder they pick on you. Ain't no boy of mine going to be a victim for no God damn bully.”
He couldn’t stand it anymore. The panic had filled his whole body and his brain until he couldn't think and the next thing he knew he was running to his mother like a little rabbit scared out of his hole. He clenched onto her as tightly as he could, knowing that if there was anyone who wouldn't hurt him it was her.
She held him and stroked his hair and tried to shush him.
“Okay. It's okay baby,” she said. She stared at Jacob from over their son's trembling little body with the type of expression people used when trying to place a face but can't quite get there.
There was a moment of what may have been guilt, or shame in Jacob's dumb drunken eyes but it was just a moment.
“I ain't kidding boy. I mean it. It's them or me.”
And then he turned and stomped out of the house.
CHAPTER 18
Jeremy woke up with a half drunk cappuccino in his hand, driving down the one-ten en-route to the FBI Los Angeles field office. On the radio was some horrible pop dribble he would have changed if he could have heard over his own thoughts. He grabbed a tie off the seat next to him and draped it around his neck. Appearance went a long way with these people.
He was in a state of – well he wasn’t sure what really. Sad resolve? He felt like Michael Corleone in the God father. Just when I thought I was out… Though if he was honest with himself this might actually have been the best thing for him. If he had to sit through one of Evelyn's shit-a-thons, or any of his clients really, he was going to strangle someone. And if he was left alone with his own thoughts... well look how dire things became at the bluffs. No, this was helpful. It was good for him to feel like someone actually needed his help- was depending on him. He could let himself down, it was letting down other people he had a hard time with.
This development he was bringing to his contacts in the bureau was certainly going to stir things up. He knew any information was gold to them at this point. If they didn’t collar Mister before he retired, fled to another country or died it would be a major smudge on the FBI for a very long time. Possibly forever. Mister was the Osama Bin Laden of serial killers. Officially now as he had just been placed on the FBI’s most wanted domestic terrorist list, easily capturing the top spot over the subsequent nine rag tag burnt out hippie idealists and religious red neck fuck ups. There was some controversy about placing him on the list at all as his crimes didn’t seem to be politically motivated in any way but he certainly was engaging in his own brand of terrorism. It wasn’t so much the killings. These psychos came and went and some captured the media’s attention more than others. But this guy. This guy was something out of a movie. He uploaded videos taunting the police and the families of his victims on the internet, which predictably went viral despite efforts to block them. He had a sort of sinister charisma. The face paint, the costume, the passionate rants, and of course his seeming ability to operate with immunity. How could the public not be interested as well as terrified by him? He was one of the most popular Halloween costumes the year before for Christ’s sake.
How terrifying it must be for Mary. Working with Matherport was nerve wracking enough, and he was caught and in chains. Jeremy suspected Victor was a puppy dog compared to the monster called Mister who was toying with the world like some sort of super villain from a comic book. To have someone like that fixated on you, knowing who and where you are, must feel something like a rape of the soul. Yes, he agreed with himself swirling around the off ramp. That would be exactly how it would feel. Like your entire life was being raped right up the metaphorical ass.
He felt a bit like the prodigal son, as he parked his car and entered the offices of the bureau.
“I'm here to see Jim Costa,” Jeremy said to the brick house of a security guard at the check in, and showed him his I.D. He signed the electronic ledgers emptied his pockets and passed through the metal detectors.
Costa was the guy responsible for cuffing Matherport, though some part of him perhaps wished he wasn't because it positioned him as the point man on the current Mister case also and after five years the public was getting very vocal about the governments inability to catch this guy. It most certainly was the kind of case that could make or break a career. So while Agent Costa didn’t exactly look as fresh as a daisy he was surprised not to find a twitchy chain smoking mess.
“Dr. Foster. Come in, please.”
“Agent Costa.”
“Has it been that long. You don't call me Jim anymore?”
“Hey you started with formalities,” Jeremy said and took a seat across from his desk.
“That I did. I guess I just figured if I had a doctorate I would want everyone to refer to me as Doctor wherever I went.”
“It was fun at first but people always seemed to be disappointed when they find out I'm just a psychologist. Not as impressive as say, a neurosurgeon, I guess.”
“So what's on your mind?” Costa said bringing an abrupt end to the small talk which suited Jeremy just fine. Jeremy got up and closed the door and Agent Costa raised an intrigued brow.
“You should watch this,” Jeremy said handing him the CD.
“Right now?”
“Yeah, right now.”
Costa flipped open his laptop and inserted the disk. Jeremy waited, gripping the arm of his chair tight, staring straight ahead, listening and waiting for it to end.
“Where did you get this? Who’s Mary?” Costa asked once he found his composure.
“That’s the
thing. That’s why I am here. You heard him threaten her not to come to you. She’s afraid of talking to anyone about it. Afraid that he’s watching her all the time.”
Costa’s forehead was now shiny from a thin film of sweat. Even though he kept his composure Jeremy started to understand just want a colossal bone he was throwing them here.
“So who is this Mary to you? How did you come into this?”
“I just met her. She came into my office a couple days ago pretending to need therapy. I later learned she was just feeling me out. She had read an article I wrote.”
“The one in Rolling Stone?”
“Yes. I think she received this video only a day or two before coming across the article. She is afraid if she goes to the cops Mister will somehow know and so she came to me for help.”
“Okay. And this girl in the video is her niece?”
“Yes.”
“Does the young girl’s family know about this?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Who does?”
“Miss Stien and myself. As far as I know.”
“Where is she now? Does she know you’ve come to see me?”
“Yes, she knows. She’s at her home, downtown.”
“Jesus. She needs to be in protective custody. At least have an officer watching her.”
“No Jim, listen to what I’m saying. She is petrified, and rightfully so. Not only for her own life but for her niece’s as well. If this fucker is watching her- and he probably is- you and I know he will kill that poor girl without batting an eye.”
“I hate to say this Jeremy,” Jim sighed, “but the girl is most likely dead by now.”
Jeremy wanted to be optimistic about it but just couldn’t be that naive.
“I know.”
“So why her? Tell me what you know about her.”
“Who the girl or Mary?”
“Both”
“The girl I know nothing about besides the fact that she’s Miss Stien’s niece.”
The Black Chronicle Page 11
