Alan is referring to "Locard's Principle." Locard is considered the father of modern forensics, and we all know the principle by heart: When two objects come into contact, there is always transfer of material from one to the other, and such material may be small or large, may be difficult to detect; never- theless it occurs, and it is the responsibility of the investigating team to gather all such material however small they may be and prove the transference. Our killers were careful. The absence of semen is telling. It shows control. With the advent of crime books, television shows, and HIV, rapists using rubbers is on the rise. But it's still unusual. Rape is about sexual power and violation. Rapists get high on the intensity of sensation this gives them. Condoms get in the way of both the violation and the sensation. Jack Jr. and friend used them, making Alan's point for him.
"We know they're not perfect," James says. "They have an immediate weakness--showing off and wanting to taunt us. That's higher risk and creates the possibility of them screwing up at some point."
"Right. What else?"
"At least one of them is technically proficient." This is from Leo. "I mean, it's not rocket science these days, editing video. But there is a learning curve, the way they did it. Not something your average computer user is going to know right off the bat."
"We think they're based in LA, right?" Callie says. I shrug. "We're going on that premise. But it's something we suspect, not something we know. We do know their victim type. They told us--they're planning to go after other women like Annie." I turn to Leo.
"What did they call her in the letter?"
"A modern-day whore of the information superhighway."
"What about that? What kind of numbers are we talking about?"
Leo grimaces at the question. "Thousands, if you take the U.S. as a whole. Maybe close to a thousand even if you narrow it to just California. But that's not the only problem. Think of it this way: Every girl with a site is potentially an independent contractor. While some are sponsored under the umbrella of a single company, a lot of them are like your friend. They design, maintain, and operate their own Web sites. It's a business of one, with a single employee. And there's no chamber of commerce for this type of business. There are lists of these types of sites in various places, but there isn't any one single consortium."
I think on this bit of bad news. Something occurs to me. "Fair enough, but what if we take it from this view: Instead of looking at everyone in that industry, let's look for the places where the killers could have found Annie. You say there are lists of these types of sites, right?"
He nods.
"It's unlikely that she's on every one of those. We look for the ones she does appear on, then we narrow the field to just the other women on those particular lists."
Now he is shaking his head again, but not in agreement. "It's not that simple. What if they found her by using a search engine? And if they did, what word or phrase did they use? Also, most site operators like her put up their own 'feeder sites.' Small, free sites with sample photos and a link to their primary site. Kind of a 'sample the goods and if you like it, come into the store.' They could also have found one of those sites."
"Not to mention the fact that they could have found her through you, Smoky." Callie sounds reluctant as she says this. I give her a look of agreement. Followed by a sigh of discouragement.
"So the Web end of it leads us nowhere?"
"Not nowhere," Leo says. "The one place to look is her subscriber list. The people who paid to see her 'members only' area."
My ears perk up at this. Alan is nodding. "Right, right," he says.
"That's how they got all those perps in the kiddie-porn sting, yeah?"
Leo smiles at him. "Yep. There are a lot of laws and oversight when it comes to credit-card processing. Fairly precise records are kept. Best of all, most processors have a built-in address check. Where the address given at sign-up has to match the address of the cardholder they have on record."
"Do we know how many subscribers she had?"
"Not yet. It won't be hard to find out. We'll need to get a warrant, but most of those companies are easy to work with. I wouldn't expect any trouble."
"I want you to work on that when we get back," I tell him. "Alan can walk you through the warrant end of things. Get the list and start combing through it. I also want her computer scrutinized. Look for anything-- anything--that might be a clue. Maybe she noticed something off, made a note to herself . . ."
"Right. I'll also get her e-mail. Depending on who her provider is, they should still have copies of anything recent that's not already sitting on her computer."
"Good."
"There's something else," Jenny says. "They went to a lot of trouble to make us think there was only one of them."
"Maybe they were hoping to confuse us with it later, somehow," I say. "I don't know. I haven't worked that one out yet." I shake my head.
"Bottom line is, we have something to run with. The prints." I turn to Callie. "Where do we stand on that?"
"I'm going to enter the prints into AFIS when we're done here and get the guys back in LA to run it. It can scan through a million prints in a minute or two, so just a few hours."
This, more than anything, excites everyone. It could be that simple. The Automated Fingerprint Identification System is a formidable tool. If we're lucky, we'll find our guy, quick.
"Let's get onto that right away."
"What did you and James figure out about them, Smoky?" Callie asks.
"Yeah, let's hear it," Alan rumbles. Both of them stare at me, waiting. I knew they'd ask; they always do. I rode the dark choo-choo train, I saw the monsters, at least one of them. Callie and Alan want to know: What did you see?
"This is all just based on feelings and surmise," I say. Alan waves his hand at me, a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You always give us that same, lame disclaimer. Just tell us."
I smile at him and lean back, looking up at the ceiling. I close my eyes and gather it all in. Snuggle up against it, catch the scent.
"They're a little bit of an amalgam. I don't have them separated out yet. They are . . . smart. Very smart. Not just faking smart. I'm thinking at least one of them has a higher education." I glance at James. "Possibly medical school." He nods in agreement. "They're deliberate. Planners. Precise. They spent hours studying up on forensics so they could make sure to leave nothing behind. This is a very, very important part of it for them. Jack the Ripper was one of the most famous serial killers of all time. Why? For one thing, he never got caught. They're following in his footsteps, in this and other ways, mimicking him. He taunted the cops, so they're taunting us. His victims were prostitutes, so they're going after what is--to them--a modern-day equivalent. There will be other parallels."
"Narcissism is a problem for them," James interjects. I nod. "Yeah."
Charlie frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Think of it this way: When you drive a car, do you have to think about it?" I ask.
"No. I just drive."
"Right. But for Jack Jr. and friend, driving isn't enough. They need to admire how good their driving is. How perfect and artful it is. That type of narcissism, where they admire what they do as they're doing it . . ." I shrug. "If you take the time to watch yourself drive, you don't have both eyes on the road."
"Hence the fingerprints on the bed," James says. "That's not a small fuckup. We're not talking hair or fibers. We're talking about five prints. Too busy watching themselves be clever."
"Gotcha," Charlie replies.
"You know, when I said they were an amalgam, that's not entirely true." I purse my lips, considering. "There is a Jack Jr. I think that's a single identity. It's just too important to share." I look at James. "You agree?"
"Yeah."
"So what does that make the other guy?" Alan asks.
"I'm not sure. Maybe a student?" I shake my head. "I can't see it clearly. Not yet. I do think that Jack Jr., whichever one he is, is dominant."
&
nbsp; "That's consistent with past 'double teams,' " Callie says.
"Yep. So, they are smart, precise, and narcissistic. But one of the things that makes them so dangerous is their willingness to commit. They don't have a problem with decisive action. That's bad for us, because it means they don't make things too complicated. They keep it clean and simple. Knock on the door, bust in, close the door, take control. A, B, C, D. That isn't a natural ability as a general rule. It's possible one or both of them has a background in the military or law enforcement. Something that would train them in the unhesitating subduing of another human being."
"The taste for rape and murder is real," James says.
"Isn't that a given?" Jenny asks.
I shake my head. "No. Sometimes someone tries to hide a regular murder in the guise of a serial killing. But what they did to Annie, how they did it . . . that was real. They're genuine."
"They have a dual victimology," James says.
Callie frowns. Sighs. "You mean they target us as well as the women they go after."
James nods. "That's right. The victim selection, in this instance, was specific and reasoned. Annie King fit two profiles for them. She ran an adult Web site, and she was the friend of someone on this team. They went to a lot of effort to get your attention, Smoky."
"Well, they got it." I sit back for a moment, running through it all in my head. "I guess that covers everything. Let's not forget the most important thing right now that we know about these guys."
"What's that?" Leo asks.
"That they're going to do it again. And keep doing it until we catch them."
18
I HAD ASKED Jenny to give me a ride to the hospital so that I could check in on Bonnie while everyone else worked on their appointed tasks. When we arrive at the door to her room, the cop guarding it holds up a legal-size manila envelope. "This came for you, Agent Barrett."
Right away, I know something is wrong. There's no reason for anyone to be dropping anything off for me here. I snatch it out of his hands and look at it. Block letters on the front in black ink give it a simple address: ATTN.: SPECIAL AGENT BARRETT. Jenny glares at him. "Jesus Christ, Jim! Use your head!" She's gotten it. Jim is a little slower on the uptake. I know when it hits him because his face turns ashen.
"Oh . . . shit."
I will give him this: His first action is to spin up and out of his chair and open the door to Bonnie's room, hand on his weapon. I'm right behind him, and I feel a relief that almost overwhelms me when I see her there asleep and safe. I motion for the cop to come back out. Once we're all outside, he puts it into words.
"This is probably from the killer, isn't it?"
"Yeah, Jim," I say, "it probably is." I don't have the energy to make my voice sound biting. It comes out sounding tired. Jenny has no such problem. She stabs a finger into his chest with enough force to make him wince.
"You fucked up! Which pisses me off, because I know you're a good cop. You know how I know you're a good cop? Because I specifically requested you for this duty and knew you'd be more than just a warm body." She's fuming, far beyond being pissed off. For his part, Jim takes it all without a trace of resentment or justification.
"You're right, Detective Chang. I don't have a defense. The nurse at the station in reception brought it by. I saw Agent Barrett's name, but I didn't make the connection. I went back to reading my paper." He looks so hangdog at this point that I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
"Damn! I let myself get lulled into a routine! A rookie mistake! Damn, damn, damn!"
Jenny seems to feel for the cop a little too, now that he's so busy beating himself up. Her next words are more conciliatory. "You're a good cop, Jim. I know you. You'll remember this screwup till the day you die--which you should--but you probably won't ever let it happen again." She sighs. "Besides, you have done your primary duty here. You kept the kid safe."
"Thanks, Lieutenant, but that doesn't make me feel any better."
"How long ago did this get delivered to you?"
He thinks about it for a second. "I'd say . . . about an hour and a half. Yeah. The nurse at the station brought it to me and said that some guy delivered it. She figured I could get it to you."
"Go get all the details. How it was delivered, who, everything."
"Yes, ma'am."
I look at the envelope as Jim runs off. "Let's take a peek inside."
I open it. Inside is a sheaf of papers clipped together. I see at the top, Greetings, Agent Barrett! Which is enough for now. I look up at Jenny.
"It's from him. Them."
"Damn it!"
My palms are a little sweaty. I know I need to read what's inside, but I dread this killer's next revelations. I sigh, fishing the ever-present pair of latex gloves I keep with me during investigations out of my jacket pocket. I slip them on, open it up, and pull out the clipped sheaf of papers. The letter is on top.
Greetings, Agent Barrett!
By now I imagine you are into the thick of it, you and your team. Did you enjoy the video I left for you? I thought the music I selected was par- ticularly apropos.
How is little Bonnie? Does she scream and weep, or is she simply silent? I wonder about this from time to time. Please, tell her I said hello. Most of my thoughts are, of course, devoted to you. How is the healing going, Agent Barrett? Still sleeping in the nude these days? With that pack of cigarettes on the nightstand to the left of your bed? I have been there, and I must say, you talk quite loudly in your sleep.
"Holy shit," Jenny whispers.
I hand her the papers. "Hold on to these for a second."
She takes them. I run to the nearest trash can, where I proceed to vomit up everything inside my stomach. They'd been inside my house! Had watched me sleep! A thrill of terror spikes through me, followed by a nauseating sense of violation. Then anger. Beneath it all, terror remains as the backdrop. One thought shouts inside my head: It could happen again! My entire body is trembling, and I slam a fist against the rim of the trash can. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and walk back over to Jenny.
"You okay?"
"No. But let's finish it." She hands me back the papers. They shake in my hands as we continue.
Matthew and Alexa, such a shame. You, alone in that ghost ship of a home, staring at your disfigurement in the mirror. So sad. I think you are more beautiful scarred, though I know you believe that to be untrue. I'll say something helpful to you, Agent Barrett, just this once. Scars are not marks of shame. They are the brands of the survivor. You might wonder why I'd offer a helping hand. It springs from a sense of fairness. A need to make the game exciting. There are many in this world who could hunt me well, but you . . . I think you can hunt me best. I've gone to great effort to ensure that you are back in the game, and just one more thing is left, one last wound to stitch up. A hunter needs a weapon, Agent Barrett, and you cannot touch yours. We need to correct this, to bring balance to the game. Please find attached some information that I believe to be at the heart of this diffi- culty you are having. It may leave a scar of its own when you read it, but don't forget: A scar is always better than an unhealed, open wound. From Hell,
Jack Jr.
I flip over the page. It takes only a few moments for me to understand what it says. Everything around me goes silent and slow. I can see that Jenny is speaking to me, but I cannot hear her words. I am cold, and getting colder. My teeth chatter, I start shivering, and the world begins tilting away from me. My heart pounds, faster, faster, and then sound returns in a chaotic flash, like a thunderclap. But I am still so cold.
"Smoky! Jesus--Doctor!"
I hear her, but I cannot speak. I can't stop my teeth from chattering. I see a doctor come over to me. He feels my head, looks into my eyes.
"She's going into full-blown shock here," he says. "Lay her down flat. Put her feet up. Nurse!"
Jenny leans over me. "Smoky! Say something."
I wish I could, Jenny. But I am frozen, and the world is frozen, and the
sun is frozen too. Everything and everyone is death, dead, or dying. Because he was right. I read the paper and, just like that, I remembered. It's a ballistics report. The part he'd circled for me said this: Ballistics tests prove conclusively that the bullet removed from Alexa Barrett came from Agent Barrett's weapon. . . .
I was the one who shot my daughter.
I hear the sound and marvel at it, before I realize that it is coming from me. It is a shriek, beginning low in the throat and then climbing, octave after octave, until it seems high enough to break glass. There it hangs, like an opera singer's vibrato. It seems to go on forever. Everything is going black now. Thank God.
19
I WAKE UP in a hospital bed to Callie hovering above me. There is no one else here. When I look at Callie's face, I know why.
"You knew, didn't you?"
"Yes, love," she says. "I knew."
I turn my face away from her. I have not felt so listless, so drained of life, since I woke in the hospital after that night with Sands. "Why didn't you tell me?" I don't know if there's any anger in my voice. Don't care.
"Dr. Hillstead asked me not to. He didn't think you were ready. And I agreed. Still do."
"Really? You think you know so goddamn much about me?" My voice sounds raw to me. The anger is there now, hot and poisonous. Callie doesn't even flinch. "I know this: You're still alive. You didn't put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. I have no regrets, honeylove." She says the next in a whisper. "That doesn't mean it didn't hurt, Smoky. I loved Alexa, you know I did."
I snap around at this, look at her, and the anger drains away. Just like that. "I don't blame you. Or him. And maybe he was right, after all."
"Why do you say that, love?"
I shrug. I'm tired, so tired. "Because I remember everything now. But I still don't want to die." I hunch into myself for a moment as pain shoots through me. "Which feels like such a betrayal, Callie. I feel like, if I want to live, then I didn't love them enough."
I look over at her, and I see that she is stricken by my words. My Callie, my happy-go-lucky Queen-Hell-on-Wheels, looks like I just punched her in the face. Or maybe the heart.
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