CARRY BOSWELL: Forensic Psychologist
Although extremely rare, copycat killers are a major concern to investigators trying to capture a serial killer. Mainly because if there are actually two perpetrators working under more or less the same modus operandi, the investigation itself can become somewhat convoluted or thrown off course altogether. For example a witness is able to assist with a composite for a man with red hair. The investigator’s efforts will be directed towards someone who fits that description while a second killer who doesn’t may benefit from less scrutiny towards him.
THOMAS NEGUS: Criminologist.
Murder is essentially the ultimate taboo. And the misguided mind belonging to someone who is deeply distrustful and generally at odds with his or her society can see taboo acts, in this case violent crimes, more as an attack on society as a whole than as a personal attack against the victims themselves. And copycat killers in some cases attempt to replicate crimes of people lashing out at society – the same society they also hate – as a form of hero worship. Though I can’t say I know for certain if that was Victor Matherport’s motivation in copying the Mister killings.
MAXWELL HAUL: Former FBI Agent.
Of any case involving a serial killer this is the one I find least surprising to have a copycat attached to it. Mister himself is nothing if not provocative. He’s intelligent, articulate, charismatic and most importantly very, very visible. Never before have we had to deal with a killer who wants to be seen like this. He clearly thinks of the world as a stage on which he is performing and like the bogeyman, needs to be believed in and feared in order to have the power he so desperately craves. He needs to be seen at any cost and unfortunately that’s a feeling that many people seem to share.
RICHARD LANSDOWN:
August sixth two thousand and ten. The body of Jason Maze is discovered in his home in San Pico California. Slain by over a dozen knife wounds. His wife Venessa Maze, missing. By all accounts the Mazes’ were upstanding members of their community and the police are hard pressed to find a motive. Just three days later a video starts appearing on peer to peer sites online by a man dressed all in white referring to himself as Mister. With him in the video, Venessa Maze… being tortured. Venessa Mazes’ body was never found and many more victims and many more videos followed. Local police and FBI were throwing everything they had into the manhunt for the madman referring to himself as Mister. But they had no idea they were actually looking for two killers.
CARRY BOSWELL: forensic psychologist
When Victor Matherport was caught the FBI had the rethink their entire investigation. Which murders belonged to the real Mister and which to Matherport? Were they working together? The difficulty came from Victor Matherport’s unwillingness to talk. Which seemed strange because as a copycat copying a man who thrived on engaging the public, he turned out to be incredibly tight lipped. It wasn’t until the FBI brought in a forensic psychologist named Jeremy Foster, that they were able to start untangling the various crimes and figuring out who committed which.
RICHARD LANSDOWN:
Once a serial killer is apprehended the first things the authorities try to establish is what other murders he or she is responsible for and locate the bodies at what is referred to as dump sites. But Victor Matherport had no intention of cooperating. So the FBI turned to forensic psychologist Dr. Jeremy Foster. A veteran with the FBI’s behavioural unit. In his forthcoming book about working with Victor Matherport he says: Never before in all my years of working criminal cases and specifically homicides, had I come across someone as disassociated from the role he was playing during his violent psychotic episodes as Victor Matherport. The man was psychotic to be sure. But the leap from mentally ill to the overarching delusion of a mythical second identity of Mister was something that was very, very difficult for me to see. Yet there it was. He eventually displayed knowledge of the dump sites. And who else could know that but the killer?
MAXWELL HAUL: Former FBI agent.
From what I understand it was Dr. Foster’s involvement in the case which lead to Matherport cooperating. During his time in the bureau he was known to me as the go to guy when dealing with violent psychotic serial offenders. I had never worked with him personally but his ability to get inside the head of offenders once they had them in a room, was almost legendary. Working that close with those kinds of crimes for as long as he did, I can say from experience, has its price. It’s not surprising to me that he retired when he did.
RICHARD LANSDOWN
We attempted to contact Dr. Foster but did not receive a reply. His book on the case, entitled ‘Making friends with the Devil’ is set for release later this year.
CHAPTER 28
“Jesus Christ, Jeremy what are you doing?” Katie asked with that tone of hers. The one that made you feel like a retarded kid who was caught eating paste. “I thought you were done with that.”
“Well sometimes we are done with the past but the past isn't done with us.”
“That's cute. Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”
Jeremy smiled inwardly and looked Katie up and down. She looked good. She was wearing a tight pair of jeans and a tank top that showed off her waist just a little bit, just enough. Was she dating someone again?
“It's not like I went looking for this? They asked for my help. I'm going to say no?”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself Jeremy.”
“What is he doing up there?” Jeremy asked referring to Charlie whom he had come to pick up for the weekend.
“Okay, you clearly don't want to talk about it-”
“Correct.”
“I just think you've done your time, you know? You paid your dues, to the bureau, or society, or whatever obligations you feel you have, they have been fulfilled.”
It was clear he couldn't just sidestep this. Why didn't he just keep his mouth shut?
“Okay, look. I had to deal with your disapproval when we were married. There's no reason for me to have endure it now. You disapprove of my career choices. Duly noted.”
“I'm not trying to nag you. I just hate what that job does to you. Look at what it's cost us.”
Jeremy took a second to stop and look at her. Really look at her. She had paid a price too. Equal to his, at least. Even if he could take things back -go back in time, what could be done any differently?”
“I appreciate your concern Kate. I really do. But you never stopped to think that maybe I am who I am, regardless of my job. Or maybe you just didn't want to see that.”
“Am I interrupting?” Charlie interrupted.
“No. You got your things?”
“Yeah. Can I bring my Playstation mom?”
“It's your dad’s apartment, ask him.”
“Sure,” Jeremy said. “Go get it.”
“It's already in my bag.”
Jeremy and Katie looked at each other, what was left unsaid, as always, hanging in the air between them. Sometimes Jeremy thought that the things between him and Kate that had gone unrequited and unexpressed were the true spine of their connection; that which made the rest of it meaningful. Like the spaces in music. Though it was a sad, sad song, he no longer had the heart to listen to.
“Okay, let's go.” Jeremy said and picked up Charlie's bag.
The drive back to Jeremy's condo was conducted in relative silence.
“Pizza tonight?” Jeremy had turned and said to his son at one point.
“Sure,” he shrugged.
Once in the apartment it took very little time for Charlie to retreat in the privacy of the spare bedroom and close the door. The sound of gunfire erupted from his video games minutes later. So much for father son time.
He sat on the couch for a long time, just thinking. Knowing that sooner or later he was going to go into his study, sit down at his desk and crack open the box of case materials. So why delay the inevitable? He grabbed the bottle of Glenfiddich and a tumbler and got to work.
The face of madness. Real madness,
Jeremy knew, was more presentable on the surface than what most people suspected but far more terrifying in its true nature. The piles and piles of FBI folders and files in front of him represented a daunting archive of information and speculations on the nature of insanity, specifically as it has been manifested through the entity known to the world as Mister. And while much of it had been written by highly educated professionals in his very field he knew that neither them or himself or any psychologist or psychiatrist or so called expert, could truly quantify or point to the genesis of madness, to the logic of what is fundamentally illogical, with ink blots or questionnaires or psychological profiles.
'Jeremy Foster is perhaps the most dynamic and creative psychological mind in the county. His insight into the nature of the psychopathic is both startling and disturbing. His mind is as agile as an Olympic gymnast, that makes wild and flourishing leaps, though always manages to stick the landing in a logical and understandable way.' A review of his book in the Times had said. Though that was just one man's opinion. Still, his professional successes had given him tremendous confidence and it was with a little self indulgent bravado that he thought maybe, just maybe, he would be the one to finally catch this guy.
Let's take a crack at this fucking nut.
Clinical detachment was a skill that had to be learned and mastered for his line of work and if he hadn't mastered it there would be no way he could pour over the mountain of photos taken from the Mister crime scenes. He wouldn't have been able to study the picture of the young woman from long beach who had her face seared off with a hot frying pan, or the man who had to watch as his daughter's eyes were removed with a corkscrew. The father had later hung himself and there was a picture of that too as it was handled as part of the investigation. Jeremy looked at the photo of the man hanging in his dimly lit garage by a plastic skipping rope and couldn't help but think that maybe he made the right choice. That maybe it was even a little noble.
He looked at most of the pictures before reading any of the case notes. The images burned into his mind’s eye like a sickening collage of death. He had poured himself a scotch but hadn't so much as sipped it yet, aware of just how easily one could lead to another at a time like this. And another to another and the last thing he wanted his head full of Mister, and a stomach full of liquor.
Wading through the folders spread across his desk he found the one he was looking for and flipped it open. It contained a disc of all the Mister videos uploaded to the internet in chronological order. He remembered hearing about it on talk radio when the first one had surfaced. A video was uploaded on to Youtube depicting a young girl being beaten by a man in white face paint and nobody knew for sure if it was real or a hoax. The media latched onto it though, betting on tragedy in this instance as in most, and winning. The girl was eventually identified. She had gone missing some weeks before removing all doubt to the video's authenticity. Youtube removed the content but of course it was already too late. It was out there. It became one of the most downloaded files on filing sharing sites ever. Like a virtual infestation of bedbugs it was nearly impossible to eradicate it. And more followed. Many more. And there were no lack of people willing to watch. Mostly male teens, he had read, and while that was probably true he was sure there were people from all walks of life and demographics whose curiosity got the best of them. Which probably encouraged Mister more than anything else to continue. He wouldn't want to disappoint his fans after all. He was a celebrity. He was Charles Manson, only worse and with PR savvy.
He took the disc and inserted into his laptop, steeled himself with a deep breath and hit play.
Mister's blank ghost face stared straight at Jeremy. Medium shot, web cam, black drop screen behind him punctuating the utter whiteness of his being. It was a nice choice. Was that a method simply to hide his surroundings or an aesthetic decision? Probably both.
He thought of Hitler's philosophical ideas about fear and art equalling power. Was Mister an artist of some kind?
Thirty four seconds passed as Mister just stared at the camera.
“I see you,” he finally said. “I see you, in the darkness. When you are alone. I see you. When you think no one sees you, I see you. Because I am you.”
He mumbled when he spoke because never did he open his mouth more than what was absolutely necessary to get the words out. It was nearly ventriloquism.
“Your little lives are surrounded by death and suffering and you close your eyes to it but I am here to make you see. To teach you who God really is. Your lives are book ended by feebleness and helplessness. You come into your existence pissing and shitting yourself, confused and lost and you leave it the same way. For such a short moment you have the power to do with your life what you will, and then it is over. Your joys are vapours. You love is vapour. You come and then you are gone in an instant. And you never return. Is this your God's will? To be beset with misery and fear. Even your planet is shrouded in darkness, floating alone in the cold and empty vastness of space. An ever expanding space; a bottomless pit. Cosmic balls of gas and hydrogen and rock and empty vast, never endless lifelessness.”
Maybe he'd have that scotch after all. He threw back the drink and held it in his mouth just long enough to feel he wasn't wasting it and then immediately poured himself another.
He would go through the videos one by one, then finish reading all the case material before he put pen to paper to record some notes. He had a method of working which had always seemed to work. A method he had stumbled on which was really in the beginning just his way of putting off the heavy mental lifting the job required. First came total immersion. Everything that was remotely related to the subject was read: third party information, mental tangents related to references or his own curiosities were indulged. Certainly all the official material was dissected and catalogued. Then finally when there was nothing left to binge on, he would sit, have a drink and just wait for the connections to form themselves. He wouldn't try to theorize or imagine, in fact he tried to keep his mind empty. And when the thoughts came, he observed them, detached like objects in someone else's mind and in this fashion things more times than not seemed to come together.
At some point in the night a brief moment of clarity from his professional trance came to him and he realized how long he had been locked away in the room. The bottle of Glenfiddich sitting half empty on the desk confirmed his suspicion.
He walked out into hallway. A clock on the wall read one. He went into the spare bedroom to find Charlie fast asleep in bed, a plate with pizza on the dresser. Jeremy took the plate and turned off the TV and quietly closed the door behind him. The all too familiar twang of guilt forming in his heart like a fast growing tumour. At least Charlie was independent. He got that from him. He probably didn't even care. He ordered himself a pizza and played his video games. He was fine. Still, that was a dick move. Why even bring him over if he wasn't going to spend time with him? He promised himself that tomorrow he would take him to the movies, or to the mall to buy some new shoes, or whatever he wanted. Maybe they could start the day with breakfast at a greasy spoon somewhere.
It was four-thirty in the morning when his cell phone rang. Jeremy rubbed his eyes and fumbled in the dark for it.
“Mary?” He answered, reading the call display and hitting talk.
“Jeremy, I'm sorry for calling.”
“No, no, it's okay. What's wrong?”
“I got another video. He hurt her. Bad.” she cried.
“A video? How?” He asked sitting upright, stretching out his stiff back.
“In my email. I got it about thirty minutes ago. I'm sorry for calling, you've already done so much. I just, I don't know. I didn't think I should wait until the morning and those FBI guys kind of freak me out.”
“No, no it's okay,” He pulled himself out of bed and walked into the kitchen for a bottle of water which he slammed in one go.
“I think you should see this. He – he knows I've been talking to the FBI.” Her voice cracked and
a sob escaped. “He said he would kill her if I told anybody and he knows. I shouldn't have told anyone. I should have just done what he said.”
“Okay. Mary I need you to take a deep breath. Panicking is only going to make things worse.”
“This is awful... oh Jesus.” she cried clearly opting out from that deep breath. “Do you think... You think you can come over. I know it's late... I just... I just. Oh God but what if he's watching?”
“Okay, listen. We have to show it to the FBI. I'm coming over now. Don't worry I will be discreet. I won't use the front lobby.”
A long silence, then finally:
“Okay, okay. Are you leaving now?”
“I will be there in thirty minutes,” he said stepping into a pair of jeans and hanging up the phone. He found a t-shirt in the closet, slipped on his watch grabbed his keys and phone. He checked in on Charlie again, who was still sound asleep. He thought about leaving him a note but he would probably be back before he got up anyways.
He needed coffee but thought it may look as though he wasn't respecting the urgency of the situation if he stopped for some so he just hoped she had some at home.
He got there quicker than he thought he would, parked his car and entered through the rear door to the building as he said he would though he had to stop at the concierge anyways to be let up. The agent's eyes flashed with recognition. Jeremy did nothing to acknowledge it, thankful for the pretence of the situation.
Mary was already waiting with the door open when he stepped off the elevator. She was wearing a grey track suit with a pink stripe down either leg. Her long hair was caught up in a massive bun behind her head and he took note of how naturally wavy he hair was without product. Her eyes were red and her nose and cheeks flushed.
The Black Chronicle Page 16
