by Shawn Ryan
He lifted himself out of his chair and headed for the door.
"Don't do that, you fucking asshole," Jason said as the door opened and Alex poked her head in.
"Was that directed at me?" she asked. "Am I interrupting a lover's spat? Should I have knocked first?"
"Well, well," Badger said. "Speak of the devil. We were just talking about you."
Jason cut his eyes at his partner and gave him an eat-hot-death look.
"I hope it was nice stuff," she said, smiling at Jason.
"Oh yeah," Badger said. "Reeeal nice."
"Just ignore him," Jason said. "He's a boy in a man's body and is having a severe hormone imbalance. So, uh, how have you been?"
Badger humphed with exasperation. "What a geek," he mumbled. "Why not just save some time and go buy a pocket protector right now?"
Jason bared his teeth at his partner. "Shut up, please?"
Alex laughed. "I've been fine," she said. "I'm stopping in to make sure your computer can access the software I've installed."
"Have at it," Jason said, offering her his chair.
"I don't need that, thanks," she said. "You need to sign on anyway, and then I can show both of you how to access this program. I'll just look over your shoulder and tell you what to do."
Jason took his seat as she bent over and placed her hand on his left shoulder. To his on-edge nerves, it felt as if someone had zapped him with a live wire. Her perfume gently wafted in his direction and he strained not to turn his nose into her neck and sniff deeply.
"Okay," she said. "Sign on."
He punched his six-digit code into the keyboard and OK appeared along with the prompter.
"Now, type in EZ and hit enter," she said.
Jason began to type when the screen flashed once and went black. His fingers hit the keyboard, but nothing came on screen.
"What happened? What'd I do?" he asked. "Did I mess it up?"
"I don't know," Alex said. "I've never seen this happen before. It might be your computer. Let me try something."
She leaned forward to type in a command, when a sentence printed itself across the screen:
Hello Jason. How are you?
Jason got a sick feeling in his stomach.
"Is that your software?" he asked.
"No," Alex answered.
"How can a computer work when the screen is black?" Badger asked.
"It shouldn't," she said quietly. "It can't."
"Let's try something," Jason said. He turned off the computer.
Oh Jason, why did you do that?
"Dear Jesus," Alex whispered.
Jason stared at the screen for several seconds, then placed his fingers on the keys.
"Who is this?" he typed.
Don't you know me by now?
"No, I don't. Who are you?"
I'd think that after Amanda and Matthew, you'd be quite familiar with me, especially after I gave you Claire's little frog as a token of my esteem.
"Are you the one who calls himself the Mercy Killer?"
Yes and no.
"What does that mean?"
It means yes and no. In some ways I am the one called Mercy Killer and in other ways I'm not.
"What is your real name?"
Oh please, do you really expect me to answer that? Let's just say I'm an old friend of the family.
"Whose family?"
Why yours, of course.
"What do you want?"
I just wanted to introduce myself, Jason, and perhaps give you a little information.
"What is it?"
There's going to be another killing.
"Where? Who?"
You'll find what you're looking for if you keep in mind that when it came to higher thinking, Socrates loved the forest and stream.
"What does that mean?"
Now, now. You don't want me telling you everything, do you? Besides, I haven't finished. It's going to be another girl, Jason. There's no way you can stop it; but if you're smart, you might be able to catch the person who did it.
"Are you that person?"
Please. I thought we'd already discussed that. My, you are dense, aren't you?
"Why are you killing these children?"
Because it pleases me and hurts you. "Please don't do it. If you want me, just tell me where to meet you and I'll come there."
Medlocke, you're already mine.
Chapter 15
« ^ »
"What the hell does he mean, Socrates loved the forest and stream?" Badger asked as Jason and Alex sat in stunned silence.
"I don't know," Jason said. "It sounds like some sort of riddle. Let's think about this. Socrates was a Greek philosopher. What was his philosophy, what were its major tenets?"
"Jesus, I don't know," Badger said. "Do you?" he asked Alex.
"It's been so long since I studied Socrates," she said. "It was back in college. The only thing I remember about him was that he taught by the Socratic method, asking questions that lead you to certain conclusions."
"But he was a teacher, right?" Jason asked.
"What's that got to do with it?" Badger said.
"Socrates was a teacher as much as he was a philosopher," Jason said. "He taught. 'Socrates loved the forest and stream.' He's talking about a teacher, he's talking about a school."
"So the forest and stream are some hint about the name of the school?" Badger said.
Jason yanked open a desk drawer and drew out a telephone directory. Flipping quickly to the school listings, he dragged his finger down the list. Private schools were first.
"Auburn, Benefield, Brookwood Elementary, Brookwood High," he read.
"Brookwood," Alex almost shouted. "Forest and stream. Brook for stream, wood for forest."
"But which one?" Badger asked, "Elementary or high?"
"What was it he said: 'When it came to higher thinking'?" Alex said. "Higher thoughts. Could that mean high school?"
"All right! Nice going," Badger said, slapping her on the back.
"Before we celebrate, let's check the rest of the names to see if any others fit the clue," Jason said.
He ran down the rest of the names—high school, middle school, and elementary. None worked within the context of the riddle.
"I think we've got it."
He grabbed the phone and punched Captain Silverman's extension. "Sir, come down here quickly. I think we've got a break in the case."
Within ten seconds, their office door swung open and Silverman stepped through.
"What've we got?" he said, his voice trying hard to stay level.
Jason told him about the messages over the computer and their solving of the riddle.
"What do you guys think?" Silverman said. "Is this legitimate?"
"I think we've got to treat it as if it is," Jason said. "We can't ignore it on the off chance that it's a hoax."
"I agree," Silverman said. "Okay, let's get a plan into gear. It's five o'clock. I want someone out there in an hour. I want you two in my office in twenty minutes with some logistical plans in mind. We'll go over them and drum up the necessary personnel.
"And you," he said, turning to Alex. "Not a word to anyone. You understand? If you call the newspapers or TV, they'll be all over us out there and fuck up the whole operation. If we can catch the guy, then you can call 'em. But not before. If you do, I chunk your ass in jail for obstructing justice. Got it?"
"No problem," Alex said.
"Sir," Jason said. "There are a couple of other things. When this guy, whoever he is, sent the messages over my computer, the thing was turned off."
"Off? How could someone do that?" Silverman asked Alex.
"I don't know," she said. "It's technically impossible. Even if someone was inside the building, there'd have to be some sort of connection to this computer."
She examined the computer top to bottom and shook her head. "Nothing here that's not supposed to be here. I can't imagine how it was done."
"Well, we'll figure it ou
t later," Silverman said. "Maybe he's a computer whiz. I'll have some of our guys start checking lists of hackers. See what they can dredge up. For now, though, let's concentrate on catching the guy before we figure out all his little tricks."
"Captain, one more tiling," Jason said. "He called me by name, said he was an old friend of the family and talked about Claire's frog. He knows me somehow."
"Well, that would make sense," Silverman said. "Any ideas who he is?"
"Not right this second, but you can bet I'm putting my mind to it," Jason answered.
"Let me know if you come up with something," Silverman said as he prepared to leave. "Okay, let's get going and not fuck this up."
By seven, as purple and red streaks arced across the evening sky, twenty-five police officers surrounded Brook-wood High School, Home of the Broncos, according to a sign on the baseball field's backstop. Some were bidden in the small stand of woods across the street from the school's front entrance. Others hid in the line of trees behind Brookwood, running the length of the school and the football and baseball fields sitting to the right of the classroom buildings. They had to be quiet since the trees were the only things that separated the school from the backyards of a nearby subdivision, and they didn't want any of the locals interfering with the surveillance.
The remaining officers tucked themselves into doorways in and around the buildings or between the mobile homes that sat alongside as temporary classrooms. There was no way to get near the school without being seen.
"Is everyone in place?" Silverman said into his two-way radio. Affirmative answers came from each location. "Okay, stay there until I tell you to come out. No smoking, keep talking to a minimum and whisper. And if any of you falls asleep, I'll have your nuts for breakfast. Or your tits if you're a woman."
Jason and Badger camped out on the roof of the gym, the largest building in the school complex. Each of them had a pair of binoculars and a radio. They sat with their backs to the air-conditioning unit, which hid them from view. After about fifteen minutes of silence, Badger spoke.
"So what do you make of all this, Jazz?" he asked.
Jason shrugged. "I'm not sure I can make anything out of it except a confusing mess," he said. "How do you explain all of it? The stuffed frog, your run-in with it, the computer working when it shouldn't, the message on the computer."
He looked at his partner with a rueful grin. "I guess I should let you know all of it," he said, and told Badger about the dream of a couple of weeks before, about the cold, blazing eyes and the horrible voice that said, "Medlocke, you're mine."
"That's the same message the guy signed off with on the computer," Badger said. "Jesus, Jazz, this is giving me goose bumps. There's just too much weird shit. It's downright scary." He took off his Atlanta Braves cap and vigorously rubbed his scalp.
"Think of how I feel."
"So what do you think is going on? Do you have any idea who this guy might be?"
"I have no idea, only guesses. And all of them are insane. I just don't know. Maybe I'm connected to the killer in my dreams. Maybe this guy has got such a strong personality or something that he's getting inside my head somehow. Or maybe I'm getting inside his. Maybe he's psychic. Maybe I am. Maybe you are."
He looked at Badger. "God, that sounds crazy, doesn't it?"
"I'm beginning to think nothing sounds too crazy with this case," Badger said.
For the next several hours, Jason and Badger sat almost silent, speaking to each other only occasionally and answering Silverman's thirty-minute check-ins. One hour became two, two became three, and three edged into four. Midnight was only thirty minutes away and Silverman called in on his usual timetable.
"You guys still awake?" he asked.
"Barely," Badger whispered into the radio. "Jazz and I haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately, you know."
"Well, now's not the time to catch up," Silverman said.
"We aren't, we'll be ready for—"
The scream erupted from the right-hand side of the school, near the baseball fields. It was a piercing cry of terror, a cry of painful death. Jason and Badger scrambled to their feet and sprinted toward the side of the roof. Silverman's voice burst through the radio.
"Maxwell, Santucci, are you over there? What's going on? Can you see anything?"
"Negative, sir," came the reply. "The scream came from somewhere in the middle of the ball field. We were looking in that direction when we heard it But we can't see anything, sir."
"Everyone get your asses over there now," Silverman barked. "Anyone in the vicinity of the ball fields, turn on your spots, coat the field, see where that scream came from."
Dozens of flashlights flared to life, their light bobbing from one end of the field to the other as officers ran from their hiding places, scouring the ground. Finally, a cry rose from the infield of one of the baseball diamonds. Jason and Badger heard the officer's voice on the radio as they clambered from the roof.
"Sir, over here, I've found something," the voice said. "It looks like… Oh my God."
The sounds of violent retching echoed out of the radio.
"Oh fuck no," Badger said.
The pair arrived at the ball field within seconds, running down the sidewalk then slipping and skidding down the scrub-covered red-clay slope from the school buildings. Several signs hung on the backstop of the baseball field, including one that said: 1986 Class AAAA State Champs. After tonight, Brookwood would lose its next thirty-five games.
A circle of officers stood around the pitcher's mound. Two officers pulled away from the crowd, one taking deep gulps of air, the other holding his hand over his mouth. Jason and Badger squeezed between shoulders and peered in.
Perched on top of the mound, hair hung down over a little girl's chest instead of her back. A mane of strawberry hair hid a pair of eyeless sockets. There was a baseball cap on her head.
Jason felt someone push him to one side as Captain Silverman elbowed his way into the circle. "Sweet Jesus," Silverman whispered.
For a few seconds, no one moved. They stood transfixed by the horror, frozen in disgust and disbelief.
"Underwood, go call the coroner and forensics," Silverman said. "You and you," he said, pointing at two other officers, "stay here with the body. The rest of ya'll start looking around to see if you can find any evidence. I don't need to tell you not to touch anything until forensics gets here. And walk gently so you don't disturb too many footprints."
He fixed his stare on a tall, blond officer standing on the other side of the circle. Jason recognized him as the one who walked away from the mound looking as if he was going to puke.
"How did this happen, Maxwell?" Silverman said.
"I don't know, sir," Maxwell said. "We had our eyes on this area the whole time. We never fell asleep or were distracted by anything, sir. Honest."
"He's telling the truth, sir," the swarthy Santucci said, standing next to Maxwell. "We were awake the whole time."
"Then how did this get here?" Silverman asked, pointing at the body on the pitcher's mound. "This is not something that can just appear out of thin air."
Oh yeah? a tiny voice within Jason said.
A strident voice burst forth from behind them.
"Captain Silverman, Detective Medlocke, Franklin, come over here, quick. Quick!"
Heads turned to see Officer Crowson standing next to home plate, pointing at it.
It was glowing a sickly shade of green.
When the officers approached, the glow flared to a near-blinding shimmer, then immediately died. As the glow ceased, however, a bright green line emerged from underneath the back tip of the plate. Like a phosphorescent snake, it cut a tiny furrow in the dirt and slithered past the dugout, under the chain-link gate, and up the hillside leading to the school.
Jason and Badger in the lead and Silverman directly behind, the group followed the line as it climbed the hill, then cut alongside the sidewalk between the mobile homes and aimed for the front of the school
. No one spoke.
Stopping at the curb where buses dropped off students, the glowing line slowly faded. As it did, another glow blossomed across the parking lot, in the grassy knoll that ran the length of the school in front. The line began to move through the grass, heading for the concrete sign reading Brookwood High School.
As he and the others hesitantly moved toward the sign, Jason saw a piece of paper attached to its side. Inside the green aura, the paper flapped in the slight, humid breeze. Oh shit, here we go again.
Badger drew out his knife and opened the blade, holding the paper still with its tip while he and Jason read:
Brethren, and especially Jason:
I'm glad you could make it. I hope you didn't have any trouble finding this note. You shouldn't have, not with the road map I provided. I'm sure my little trick will provide you with hours of wonderment and speculation.
I've done as I promised. Another day, another death. The Lord commands and I obey. You're probably wondering how I did it without alerting the twenty-five policemen you stationed all around. With the help of the Lord, one can do many miraculous things. The power of prayer is wondrous.
Please tell Captain Silverman not to be too hard on Maxwell and Santucci. They are telling the truth. They never fell asleep. They just didn't see me. No one saw me. I am cloaked in righteousness.
As for you Jason, you know so little and understand less than that. But you will. In time. I'll make sure of it.
So better luck next time. And there will be a next time. I promise.
Sincerely, The Mercy Killer.
Chapter 16
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Banner headlines screamed across the top of the Atlanta papers. "How Many More?" "Parents Frightened." "Terror Grips Gwinnett."
Alison Quintard folded the copy of the Atlanta Constitution and tossed it onto his desk. He picked up the Atlanta Journal and scanned its story on the third killing. As soon as he finished, he read the piece in USA Today and the Marietta Daily Journal.
He was loving it. A week had gone by since they'd found the girl at Brookwood, and the cops still were stumped and admitted it.
With a satisfied smile, Quintard sank back into his leather chair and pulled the bottle of Jim Beam from the bottom drawer of his desk. This was better than he had hoped. The way things were going, unless they came up with some miracle soon, he had more than enough to bury Medlocke and Franklin. Those cocky bastards were going to take it on the chin, he thought as he poured a shot into a Dixie cup. Those shits were going down in flames.
