Shadow Man

by Cody McFadyen

  “Thanks, Reggie.”

  “No problem.” He yawns. I shake my head as I watch him wander back to his van with his equipment. It takes all kinds.

  Now I’m alone with the package. I look at it. It’s not that big. Just big enough for what it holds: something the size of a jelly jar, a letter, and a CD. Probably a CD. I want to look inside. Burn to.

  I walk back around the front of the van. Alan is returning with Jed Patterson, whose fingertips are now black with ink. I motion to Alan.

  “The package is clear,” I tell him. “Let’s get it to the lab.”

  “No shit,” Callie agrees.

  Everyone’s chafing at the bit on this one.

  Gene Sykes runs the crime lab, and when he sees us walk through the door a look of resignation settles onto his face.

  “Hey, Smoky. So how long do I have for this one?”

  I grin at him. “Come on, Gene. It hasn’t been that long.”

  “Uh-huh. So we’re talking yesterday, then?”

  “Yep.”

  He sighs. “Tell me about it.”

  “Package delivered through a parcel service, definitely from our guy. We had a bomb tech check it out, which means that the outer part of the box got wiped. We also got prints from the delivery driver for elimination.”

  “Do you know what’s in it?”

  “The tech did an on-the-spot x-ray. Looks like the box contains a jar of some kind, a letter, and maybe a CD. Not a hundred percent sure of anything since we haven’t opened the box up.”

  “How do you know it’s from your unsub?”

  “Because he told us he’d be sending it.”

  “That was considerate of him.” He ruminates on all of this information for a moment. “You’ve already run one crime scene related to this unsub?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything show up?”

  I tell him about the prints we’d found on Annie’s bed.

  Gene is scratching his head, thinking. Beginning to lose himself in the problem.

  “I need this one really scrutinized, Gene. But I need it as fast as you can do it.”

  “Sure. I’m going to take it layer by layer. I’ll remove the box, the contents, and address each separately. You say he’s careful, so I doubt we’ll get any plastic or visible prints. But sometimes they surprise us.”

  There are three types of prints at a crime scene: plastic prints, visible prints, and latent prints. Plastic and visible prints are our favorites. Plastic prints are created when the perpetrator leaves a print in a soft surface, like wax, putty, or soap. Visible prints are created when the perp has touched something—such as blood—and then touched another surface. Leaving, literally, a print you can see with the naked eye. The most common are latent, or invisible, prints. These are the ones you really have to look for, and the technology of getting them can be an art form at times.

  Gene is an artiste. If something’s there, he’ll get it.

  “It goes without saying, Gene, if it is a CD in there, I need the contents of it before you do anything that would damage it.” Getting latent prints can involve the use of chemicals and heat. Either of these could damage the CD, making it unreadable.

  He shoots me a look of injured scorn. “Please, Smoky. Who do you think you’re dealing with here?”

  I grin. “Sorry.” I hand over two other plastic evidence bags, each containing the recent deliveries and correspondence from Jack Jr. “Check these out after. They’re from the same unsub.”

  He scowls. “Anything else?” Sarcastic.

  “You’ll be getting the benefit of my assistance and expertise, honey-love,” Callie says. Gene gives her a sour look.

  “We’re on a timetable here, Gene. He’s let us know that he’s going to kill again.”

  His face grows sober. “You got it.”

  I walk into the office and find Alan on the phone. He’s talking fast. Something has him excited. He’s holding Annie’s case file in one hand. “I need to confirm it, Jenny. I want to be a hundred percent sure. Right.” He taps his foot impatiently, waiting. “Really? Okay, thanks.” He hangs up the phone, jumps out of the chair, and comes over to me. “Remember when I told you something was bothering me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was in the inventory of things taken from her apartment.” He opens the file, finds a page, and points to it. “A receipt for an exterminator service inspection of her apartment five days before she was killed.”

  “So?”

  “So—most places like the one where she was living handle extermination for the building as a whole.”

  “That’s not exactly conclusive. But keep going.”

  “Yeah, I might have dismissed it too. But I saw the actual receipt while we were there, and something about it has been nagging me ever since.”

  “Come on, Alan.”

  “Sorry—it was a notation on the receipt.” He grabs a notepad from his desk and reads from it. “Did Shoe Write-up. I mean—what the fuck is that? And then the guy signed it Armouried Murrey.”

  “Strange name.”

  “They’re anagrams, aren’t they?” James says.

  Alan turns to look at him, surprised. “That’s right. How did you—never mind.” He turns back to me, shows me the pad. “See—Did Shoe Write-up. Change the letters around and you get: Die, Stupid Whore.”

  My stomach lurches.

  “Then Armouried Murrey—mix the letters up and you get—” He shows the notepad to me again.

  I am your murderer.

  “The final insult,” James murmurs. “He tells her that she’s going to die and that he’s going to do it, right to her face. And she never has a clue.”

  I realize I expect to feel rage at this, but it is absent. I’m becoming hardened to their games. I glance at Alan. “That’s pretty impressive work.”

  He shrugs. “Just always had a thing for anagrams. And niggling details.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re amazing,” James says. “The question is, what does it mean and how can we use it?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, asshole,” Alan says.

  The insult misses James by a wide mark. He is nodding, thinking. “I don’t think he came to gloat. I think he came to scout. To make sure he knew the full layout of the place.”

  “Or to verify prior data,” I say. “He might have been there before, and wanted to verify that nothing had changed.”

  “Casing the place,” Alan says. “That makes sense, with these guys. They’re smart, careful. Planners.”

  “Maybe it’s their MO,” I say. I feel an excitement building in me. “If we could get some kind of a jump on their next victim—anything—we might be able to catch whichever one does the recon.” I turn to Leo. “Where do we stand on your end of things?”

  Leo grimaces. “No good news, I’m afraid. The IP number was not a static IP. We were able to track where the usage originated, but it was a dead end.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He used a cybercafé. Think of a coffeehouse where you can get on the Internet. Completely anonymous.”

  “Damn. Anything else? At all?”

  “No.”

  “Well, everyone put your thinking caps on. Hard.”

  The phone rings. Alan answers it, speaks, and hangs up. “They’re ready for you down in the lab,” he says to me.

  I take the elevator down four floors, and when I get to the lab, I find Gene chattering away at a bemused Callie.

  “Careful,” I say to her, “he’ll talk your ear off.”

  Gene turns to me. “I was telling Agent Thorne about the latest advances coming out in the identification of mitochondrial DNA.”

  “Heady stuff,” Callie says in her driest voice.

  Gene scowls. “Oh, knock it off,” he says. “I know you better than that, Callie. You were one of my best interns.”

  She grins, winks at me.

  I raise my coffee in a toast. “I’ve always sung your praises, Gene. In that vein—what
do you have for me?”

  He gives Callie a last frown. She sticks her tongue out at him. He turns to me with a sigh. “No immediate physical evidence. By that, I mean no fingerprints, fibers, hair, epithelials, anything. But what is there is very, very interesting. It tells us something about the unsub that even he is unaware of.”

  This perks me up. “How’s that?”

  “In good time, Smoky. To understand it, you have to read the letter first.” He passes it to me. “Go ahead.”

  I don’t like people being cryptic. But Gene is one of the best forensic scientists in the country. Maybe in the world. And Callie is nodding at me.

  “It’s worth the wait, honey-love.”

  I turn my attention to the letter.

  Greetings, Agent Barrett!

  So, I’m dying to know: How did you enjoy the tale of Ronnie Barnes? Not the brightest boy, I’m afraid, but perfect to demonstrate a point. You are wondering, I know. How many other Ronnies are out there? I’m afraid I find it far more satisfying to let you continue to wonder.

  I saw you walk into that shooting range when you returned from San Francisco, by the by. I have to say, I was EXCITED! It’s always rewarding when a gambit comes to such perfect fruition. Now my opponent is fully armed and operational. Something that gets my blood singing through my veins! Do you feel the same? The pounding of the heart? That sharpening of the senses?

  “He’s following you, honey-love.”

  “Yeah. We’re going to have to address that.”

  You look different now, Agent Barrett. More dangerous. No longer hiding those scars you were so ashamed of.

  Good for you. And for me. Because now we can dispense with the kid gloves. Now we can begin to make this game truly interesting!

  I’ve enclosed two things for you. One of them, the contents of the jar, requires some explanation for full understanding.

  Let us talk about Annie Chapman. Also known as Dark Annie. Does that name ring a bell for you, Agent Barrett? It should. She was my ancestor’s second victim.

  Poor, poor Annie Chapman. She wasn’t always a dirty whore, you know. She waited until her husband died to start spreading her slut legs for money. Most offensive. When my ancestor killed her he was lancing a boil on the skin of society.

  She was the second killed, but she was the first one dear Jack took keepsakes from. He excised her uterus, the upper portion of the vagina, and the posterior two-thirds of the bladder.

  Of course, many different theories have been put forth about this. And of course, all of them have been wrong. No one had the vision to understand my ancestor’s plan. I am sharing it with you now, so listen closely:

  Jack knew that his bloodline, both past and future, was of an exceptional nature. Descended from the ancient predators. The original hunters. Above the cattle of humanity. He knew that it was his duty to pass on his knowledge and his power to future generations, to explain our holy mission.

  And so he took many keepsakes. He took these pieces of whores and sealed them up, preserving them. He decreed that they be passed down, from generation to generation, as a reminder of what he had begun.

  I told you I would provide proof of my claims, Agent Barrett. I am a man of my word. I am passing on to you one of the sacred keepsakes. The preserved uterus of Annie Chapman.

  Awe-inspiring, is it not? Run your tests. When you do, I think you will find it harder to sleep at night. For you will know that a descendant of the Shadow Man is out and about.

  “Is what he’s saying true, Gene? Is that a human uterus in that jar?”

  He smiles. Another cryptic smile. “We’ll address that. Finish reading the letter.”

  The Shadow Man. While there is only one original, you have known many pretenders, haven’t you, Special Agent Barrett? Those who live in the shadows, kill in them. My ancestor was born in the shadows. His was a heritage of darkness.

  He loved the shadows, and the shadows…well, they loved him back. He was their purest child.

  But I digress.

  I have included another CD for you. I have been continuing the mission of my ancestor. I’ve cleansed the earth of another whore, lanced another boil.

  “Damn,” I say.

  Enjoy it. I am quite proud of my work.

  That is all for now, Agent Barrett. Rest assured, I will be in touch. Perhaps in a more personal fashion. One week. Tick tock, tick tock.

  From Hell,

  Jack Jr.

  I put the letter down, and look at Gene. “Spill it.”

  He rubs his hands together. “After reading that, the jar was the first addressed, of course. I ran some basic tests, and that’s how I found it.”

  “What?”

  He pauses for effect. “There’s no human tissue in that jar, Smoky. If I had to guess, I would say that it’s bovine.”

  Shock strikes me speechless for a moment, and then: “Holy shit!”

  He grins. “Yes. Our boy thinks he has something passed on by Jack the Ripper. But he doesn’t. He has a piece of preserved cow flesh. He has an entire belief system built up that he doesn’t know is a lie.”

  My mind is reeling. “It’s all bullshit. Bullshit somebody spoon-fed him. He’s no descendant of the Ripper. He’s—”

  “Just another killer,” Callie says, completing the thought. She wiggles her eyebrows. “Not bad, huh? No physical evidence to identify our boys. But it’s certainly a defining characteristic.”

  “Great, great work. Can you tag all of this and put together a report?”

  “Certainly. I’ll have it done this evening.”

  “Great. Wow.” I turn to Callie. “We need to go share this with the rest of the team.” We begin to head out the door.

  “Ah—Agent Barrett?”

  I turn around and see Gene holding it in a gloved hand.

  Oh shit.

  In the excitement, I’d forgotten about it for a moment. The CD. My elation fades.

  It was time to go watch another murder.

  37

  WE’RE BACK IN the office.

  “I have good news and bad news,” I say.

  “What’s the good news?” Alan asks.

  I relate the substance of the letter, ending with what Gene had found in the jar. Leo’s and Alan’s eyes widen. James gets an unfocused look. I can almost hear the thoughts spinning in his head.

  “So,” he says, “someone has indoctrinated him in this. Either they think it’s true, or they wanted him to think it’s true.”

  “Maybe he created the fantasy,” Leo says. “Why does it have to involve another person?”

  “Because the level of delusion he’d have to operate at for that to be the case would preclude his level of organization and competence. Think about it.”

  Callie nods. “I agree, honey-love. To create that belief system and then forget he created it…I don’t think he’d be very functional. He’d be far too delusional.”

  I chew on this. “It’s a big break,” I say. “Another link. Now we aren’t just looking for him, we’re also looking for who worked to build this belief in him.” I turn to Alan. “Call Dr. Child now. Get this over to him. Call him at home if he’s not in. Tell him I need to see him tomorrow morning. This is one time a profile could really be helpful.”

  “Got it.”

  “He’s starting to screw up,” I say. “There’s this, and him letting it slip that he’s following me.”

  Alan looks up, alarmed. “What?”

  “It’s in the letter. I went to a shooting range when we got back from San Francisco. He told me that he saw me go there. Which is a bad move on his part.”

  “You need to be very, very careful, honey-love.”

  I smile. “Don’t worry, Callie. I’m going to be calling an old friend on this one. Ex–Secret Service. I’m going to have him follow me.”

  She nods. “He’ll shadow you, and by doing that, he’ll be able to spot anyone else following you.”

  “Yep. My friend is very good. He’ll also be able t
o find any tracking devices or bugs on my car. I’ll have him sweep the house as well. I’ll keep them there if he finds any. We’ll know where the bugs are—but he won’t know we know.”

  “Have you noticed that you are using ‘he,’ and not ‘they’?” James asks me.

  I look at him, surprised. I hadn’t noticed. “I guess it’s because, more and more, I’m convinced that there is a primary ‘he.’ There is a Jack Jr. The other is incidental. I can feel it. Look at Ronnie Barnes. Jack used him up and threw him away. He said it in his letter—he’s looking for other killers to foster.”

  “That begs the question about perp number two from Annie’s apartment,” James says. “Is he still alive? Or dead like Barnes?”

  “No way to be sure…but I think he’s still alive.”

  “I agree,” Alan says. “Think about it. He started something with Annie, something he’s been planning for a while. He’s not going to want to have to shift gears in the middle of it to train another killing buddy.”

  I look at all of them. “We’re catching up.”

  James is staring at me. “Enough back-patting,” he says. “What’s the bad news?”

  I hold up the CD. “He sent us this as well. He killed someone else.”

  The office goes quiet. Leo stands up, holding out his hand for the CD. “Let’s get it over with.”

  I give it to him. “Go ahead.”

  His laptop is already on. He puts the CD in. Moments later, the video starts.

  It begins with a title screen, white letters on a black background: This death sponsored by http://www.darkhairedslut.com.

  “Note that down,” I say to Leo.

  A bound and struggling woman appears. She’s naked and tied to a bed, just as Annie was. I estimate her age to be just under twenty-five. She’s very natural-looking. By that I mean she doesn’t have any breast enhancements—unless she had them enlarged to a B cup, which is doubtful. She still has the flawless body of the young, not yet marred by the rigors of carrying a child. Her hair is long, thick, and dark. Another brunette; he prefers them. Her eyes express everything she is feeling. Panic, terror, despair, all cranked up to an unbearable level.