Shadow Man

by Cody McFadyen

  Dr. Kenneth Child is one of the few profilers whose opinion I respect. I had asked Callie to get him a copy of all the information on Jack Jr. and to ask him for a consultation, soonest.

  “He said to tell you that he read the letter and has some opinions, but he wants to wait until after he sees whatever is in the package. The one that’s supposed to arrive on the twentieth.” She shrugs. “He was pretty firm about it.”

  I let it go. Dr. Child has never brushed me off. I’ll have to trust his instincts on this. I turn to Alan and Leo. “What’s the status on the warrant for Annie’s subscriber list?”

  “We should have it in an hour,” Leo says.

  “Good. Stay on that.” I snap my fingers. “Do we have someone from the LAPD bomb squad lined up?”

  Alan nods. “Yep. They’re bringing a bomb sniffer with them.”

  “Bomb sniffer” is the name given to a machine utilizing ion mobile spectrometry. In short, it can detect traces of ionized molecules that are specific to explosive materials.

  Much debate had gone on about how to set things up for the twentieth. AD Jones wanted a SWAT team there, in case Jack Jr. or friend decided to make this delivery personally. I had nixed this idea.

  “That’s not how they’ve operated so far,” I had said. “And that’s not how they’re going to operate now. I expect it to be simple. Regular delivery.”

  He’d agreed after some protest. And after I’d made the point that bringing in SWAT would likely bring the media with it. He and I had seen eye-to-eye on having a bomb tech there, however. Not taking that precaution would be foolhardy.

  “Something’s still bothering me about Annie’s file,” Alan says. He glances at James. “Be nice to get another point of view on it.”

  “Help him out, James.”

  James nods. He hasn’t said a single word this morning.

  “There is another question that begs an answer, honey-love,” Callie murmurs. “How are they getting all their information? I mean—we found the bugs in Dr. Hillstead’s office, but medical records, my daughter?”

  “It’s not that hard,” Leo pipes up. We look at him. “Information just isn’t as secure as people think it is. Elaina’s medical records?” He shrugs. “A white coat and attitude, and you can walk just about anywhere in a hospital. Combine that with computer know-how, and you’ve hacked into the hospital servers. You can buy information, steal information, hack information.” He shrugs. “You’d be shocked at how easy it can be. I’ve seen it, working in Computer Crimes. Good hackers, or identity thieves, can get their hands on all kinds of personal data. Things that would surprise you.” He looks at Callie. “Give me a week, and I could find out everything about you. From your credit rating to what medications you take.” He looks around at all of us. “The stuff he’s come up with so far? Disturbing, I know. But not rocket science to acquire.”

  I stare at him for a moment, letting this sink in. We all do. Finally, I nod. “Thanks, Leo. So—does everyone know what they’re working on?” I look around. “Good.”

  The door to the office opens, breaking the moment. I glance to see who’s coming in, and concern floods me.

  Marilyn Gale is standing in the doorway, looking worried. A uniformed policeman is standing next to her, holding a package in his arms.

  33

  IT CAME AN hour ago,” she says. “Addressed to you, Agent Barrett, care of me. I figured…” she trails off, but we all understand. Who else would be sending something for me to Marilyn’s address?

  We’re back in the office. Everyone is crowded around the desk, looking at the package while sneaking curious glances at Marilyn. Callie notices the latter, and her exasperation at this seems to overtake her concern about the package.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says. “This is my daughter, Marilyn Gale. Marilyn, meet James, Alan, and Leo, lower functionaries.”

  Marilyn grins at this. “Hi,” she says.

  “Did you intercept it?” I ask the policeman, a Sergeant Oldfield.

  “No, ma’am.” He’s a solid-state-looking guy. Been around, very comfortable being the police, and not cowed by myself or the FBI in general. “Our assignment was to watch the residence. And Ms. Gale when she goes out, of course.” He jerks a thumb at Marilyn. “She came to us with the package, explained her concerns, and asked us to transport her and the package here.”

  I turn to Marilyn. “You didn’t open it, did you?”

  Her face grows serious again. “No. I didn’t think I should. I mean, I’ve only done my first year in criminology”—I see Alan and Leo exchange glances at this—“but even if I hadn’t, all you have to do is watch some TV to know you don’t mess with possible evidence.”

  “That’s good, Marilyn,” I say. I choose my next words with care. I don’t want to frighten her too much, but they have to be said. “That’s not the only reason, though. What if he decided to do something crazy? Like send a letter bomb.”

  Her eyes go wide. She gets a little pale. “Oh—I…Jesus. I mean, it never occurred to me…” She gets paler. Thinking of her baby, I bet.

  Callie puts a hand on her shoulder. I see anger and concern in Callie’s eyes. “Nothing to worry about now, honey-love. It was x-rayed by security before you came up, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing they look for.”

  Marilyn’s color is coming back. She recovers fast.

  So then what we have here, I think, is something new and exciting. And maybe not pretty to look at.

  “Callie, why don’t you take Marilyn to lunch?”

  She gets the message. I’m going to open this up; there could be something in here that Marilyn doesn’t need to see.

  “Good idea. Come on, honey-love.” She grabs Marilyn by the arm, moving her toward the door. “Where’s little Steven, by the way?”

  “My mom’s watching him. Are you sure you can leave right now?”

  “It’s fine,” I say to her, smiling though I don’t feel it inside. “And thanks for bringing this by. If this happens again, call us. Don’t touch the package.”

  Her eyes widen again, and she nods. Callie hustles her out.

  “Mind if I hang around, ma’am?” Sergeant Oldfield asks. He shrugs. “I’d like to see what’s in the package. Get a feel for the perp.”

  “Sure. As long as you add intercepting packages to your list of duties in the future.” I look at him. “Not a rebuke, just a request.”

  He nods. “Already done, ma’am.”

  I open a drawer, reach in, and extract some latex gloves, slip them on. Now I focus on the package. It’s another legal-size manila envelope. The familiar block printing in black ink is on the front: ATTN.: AGENT SMOKY BARRETT. The package is about a half to three quarters of an inch thick.

  I turn it over, check the flap. Not sealed. Just the brad holding it closed. I look up. Everyone is silent, waiting. Might as well open it.

  The letter is on top. I rifle through the other contents, a brief look. My eyes narrow at the sight of a few pages of printed photos. Each picture shows a woman, naked from the waist up, wearing panties, some tied to chairs, some tied to beds. In every case, a hood is over the woman’s head. Something else is in the envelope, and my heart sinks. A CD.

  I turn my attention to the letter. What now? I think, bleak.

  Greetings, Agent Barrett!

  I realize this was circuitous, being sent care of Ms. Gale. But that served just one purpose: to continue to push my prior point home. That no one you love is safe, should I decide to reach out and…touch them.

  No, this is all for you, Agent Barrett. Please bear with me as I walk you through it. There is a philosophical basis behind it, some history you need to understand, if you are to grasp these contents in their entirety.

  Do you know what the most searched-for word on the Internet is? Sex. Keeping that in mind, do you know what one of the other most sought-after words is? Rape.

  With the millions who access
the Web, with all that exists upon it, two of the things most looked for, most desired, are sex and rape.

  What does this mean? One could argue, with the demographics of the Net, that it means there are a million men sitting in their homes right now, thinking about the subject of rape. All sweaty palms and tents in their trousers. This is something, is it not?

  Now let me take you down another, related path. A new type of Web site has begun to proliferate on the Internet. Sites devoted to men sharing their hatred of women with each other. Let us take the site aptly named “revengeonthebitch.com.” On this Web site, jilted men post compromising photos of their former girlfriends or wives. Nude photos. Sexual photos. All with one end in mind: degradation and embarrassment. Below each photo, others are invited to post their opinions. I’ve enclosed a sample of this, the first attachment. Give it a once-over.

  I find the attachment he’s referring to. At the top is a picture of a smiling, brown-haired woman. She’s twenty or twenty-five. She’s naked, legs spread for the camera. The caption says: My stupid, cheating girlfriend. One skanky fucking slut. Below it is a listing of responses. I read through them.

  CALIFORNIADUDE: WHAT A FUCKING SKANK! BE GLAD SOMEONE ELSE IS HITTING THAT NASTY PUSSY!

  JAKE 28: SHOULD HAVE SLIPPED THAT BITCH SOME ROOFIES AND PASSED HER OFF TO ME AND MY CREW TO BUTT-RAPE HER! SLUT!

  RIZZO: ROOFIES RULE!

  DANNYBOY: I'D HIT IT!

  TNINCH: NICE COOZE. TOO BAD SHE'S SUCH A CUNT.

  HUNGNHARD: DO WHAT I DO! SHOVE YOUR COCK IN HER MOUTH AND TELL HER TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!

  I put it aside. I’ve read enough. The careless hatred is nauseating.

  “Wow,” Leo whistles. “That is incredibly fucking disturbing.”

  I continue reading.

  Revelatory, isn’t it? So, what do we have in our cauldron, then? Let’s take stock: sex and rape, hatred of women as a pastime. Mix them together, and what do we get?

  An environment perfectly conducive to a meeting of the minds. Minds like mine, Agent Barrett.

  True, most of these minds are puerile, unworthy. But if you are willing to search, as I am, to poke, coddle, cajole…you can find a few who are poised to take that leap to the other side. All they are lacking, in most instances, is little bit of encouragement. A mentor, if you will.

  I feel my stomach beginning to churn. Some part of me thinks I know where this is going.

  I believe I’ve laid the groundwork for your full understanding. Now let’s jump to the photos, shall we? You’ve probably already glanced at them. Give them a good once-over.

  I do. There are five women in total. I take a closer look. “What do you think?” I ask Alan. “Do the bed and chair look the same in each picture?”

  Alan takes the pages, scans them. “Yeah.” He squints, then puts the pages down on my desk, next to each other. He points to the carpet in one. “Look at that.”

  I do. I see a stain.

  “Then here,” he says, pointing to another one of the pictures.

  Same stain.

  “Shit,” Leo says. “Different women, same guy.”

  “But it’s not Jack, is it?” James says, breaking his silence. “Jack’s not the guy. Maybe Jack’s current companion.”

  Silence at this. I go back to the letter.

  You are a sharp one, Agent Barrett. I’m sure you’ve realized by now, after poring over these photos, that these young lasses all appear in the same location. The reason is simple: All five were killed by the same man!

  I curse. Part of me knew it, but he had confirmed it. These women were already dead.

  Perhaps you, or one of your compatriots, have already deduced the rest as well. That the man who killed these women is not me. If so, then let me be the first to give applause.

  I found the talented young man who took these pictures in that vast, dark environment, those wild plains that make up the World Wide Web. I recognized his hungers and his hatreds, and it did not take long at all for him to take his leap. To relinquish his last, silly hold on the light and embrace the dark.

  Of course, this could be a hoax on my part, yes? Take a look at the CD I have enclosed, and when you are done, feel free to call Agent Jenkins in the New York office of your FBI. Ask him about Ronnie Barnes.

  Oh, and if some hope is leaping in your breast that Barnes will provide you with that lead you yearn for, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Mr. Barnes isn’t with us anymore. Watch the CD. You’ll understand.

  Down to the point of it all, as I end this for now. The point remains the same: Hunt me. Hunt me well, and remember this: Ronnie Barnes was just one of so many with those special hungers. And I am always looking for those meetings of the minds.

  From Hell,

  Jack Jr.

  “Jesus Christ,” Alan says in disgust.

  “Interesting,” James muses. “He’s like a living computer virus. That’s what he’s showing us. That he can replicate in others.”

  “Yeah,” Leo replies. “And he’s still upping the ante. Letting us know he ain’t gonna stop escalating until we get him.”

  I’m too tired and disturbed to reply. I hand Leo the CD. “Put it in.”

  We move over to stand behind him as he places the CD in the tray and opens it up. We see what is now becoming all too familiar—a video file. Leo looks up at me.

  “Go ahead.”

  He double-clicks it. Video and sound start. We see a woman bound to a chair. This time, she’s fully nude, and her face isn’t hooded. She’s a brunette, I note. A pretty girl in her early twenties. And she’s terrified to the point of insanity.

  A man steps in next to her. He’s grinning, naked. I swallow in disgust as I notice he’s also fully erect. Turned on by the terror. I assume this is Ronnie Barnes.

  “Geeky-looking guy,” Oldfield notes.

  Unkind, but he’s right. Ronnie Barnes is a pimply-faced, only-just-postadolescent, with a scrawny chest and thick-lensed glasses. The kind who draws jeers from shallow women. He’ll masturbate thinking about them even though he hates them for the things they say. He’ll despise them even more for being desirable, despise himself for desiring them. I know all of this not because he’s scrawny and pimply, but because he holds a knife in his hands, and it’s giving him a hard-on.

  He looks toward something we can’t see, off camera. “You want me to do it now?” he asks. I don’t hear a response, but he nods and licks his lower lip, excited. “Cool.”

  “Who is he talking to?” Alan wonders.

  “Two guesses,” I say.

  Barnes bends over, seems to gather himself. What he proceeds to do next is so decisive, so brutal, that we all recoil in shock.

  “Fucking cunt!” he screams. He raises the hunting knife and brings it down point-first, with all the brutality he can muster. It almost seems to disappear into her. He doesn’t just pull the knife out, he yanks it, savage and furious. He raises it high above his head, again, and brings it down, again.

  He is putting his entire body into it, all his muscles; his neck is corded with the effort.

  Again.

  This is not the methodical method of Jack Jr. This is the out-of-control mindlessness of a madman.

  Again.

  “Cunt!” Barnes screams. Then he just keeps screaming.

  “Motherfucker!” Leo says. He jumps and runs for a trash can, vomiting into it.

  None of us begrudges him this.

  As soon as it has started, it’s over. The woman has ended up on her back. She’s barely recognizable as human. Barnes is on his knees, leaning backward, arms out, eyes closed, covered in blood and sweat. Hyperventilating in his bliss. His erection is gone.

  He looks off again. His expression is worshipful. “Can I say it now?” He turns to face the camera, looking right into it. He smiles, nothing human or sane evident. “This one’s for you, Smoky.”

  “Oh, man…” Leo moans.

  I say nothing. Some part of me has shut down. I keep watching.

>   Barnes looks off again. “Did I do good? The way you wanted?” I see his expression change. First puzzlement. Then fear. “What are you doing?”

  When the gunshot comes, blowing his brains out, I jump up without meaning to, my chair falling behind me.

  “Fuck!” Alan yells, just as startled.

  I lean forward, gripping the sides of the desk, arms trembling. I know what’s coming. It has to be. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity. He doesn’t disappoint. That hooded face is in front of the camera, eyes crinkling because of the grin we can’t see. He gives us a big thumbs-up.

  The video ends.

  Everyone is shocked and silent. Leo wipes his mouth. Sergeant Oldfield’s hand has strayed to his weapon, an unconscious reflex.

  My mind feels like an empty, hollow place. Tumbleweeds blowing through it, pushed by the wind.

  Getting a grip on myself is almost a literal thing.

  My voice is full of heat when I speak. Tight and smoking. “Back to work,” I say.

  They all look at me like I’m nuts.

  “Come on!” I snap. “Pull it together, guys. This is just one more fucking distraction. He’s messing with us. Get a grip, and get back to work. I’m going to call this Agent Jenkins.” My voice sounds firm, but I’m still trembling.

  It takes them a minute, then my words get through. They start moving. I pick up the phone, call the switchboard, and get them to dial me into the New York FBI headquarters, all on automatic. My head is spinning. When reception answers, I ask for Agent Jenkins. Surprise, surprise, he’s in NCAVC Coord too.

  The phone rings, is picked up. “Special Agent Bob Jenkins.”

  “Hi, Bob. This is Smoky Barrett, from NCAVC Coord Los Angeles.” The normal tone of my voice surprises me. Hi, how are you, just watched a woman get eviscerated, what’s new with you?

  “Hi, Agent Barrett. I know who you are.” His voice is curious. I would be too, if our roles were reversed. “What’s up?”

  I sit down. Take a breath. My heartbeat feels like it’s coming back down to normal. “What can you tell me about Ronnie Barnes?”