Cajun Fire

by Rick Murcer

  “Hanging in there, mostly. I’m hoping against hope—every second, by the way—that you will get me out of here today. You did bring the limo, right?”

  Her wry smile told Manny more than her words. Reminding him once again that he had never seen such a reversal of functional psychology in a single person. It was little wonder that she was the focus of much study.

  “We’re working on that.”

  “I know you are, Manny. I know it.”

  Her face softened as she turned in Sophie’s direction, rubbing her synthetic hand covered by the black glove. She’d lost it during her encounter with Caleb Corner, Josh’s brother.

  “We’re isolated in here, but I get information because of the computer work I do. I’m sorry beyond words to hear about Dean, Sophie. I’ve been thinking of you, praying too.”

  Sophie nodded slowly. “Thank you. I’m a little better. I just wish prayers worked the way I want them to,” she answered softly.

  “I know, but every notch upward helps. Better is still better. I know a little about that.”

  “I suppose you do. I’m on the road, but it’ll be a long one. So thanks again.”

  Anna looked down at the table, her arms extended at her shoulders before she finally rested them on the table.

  “I suspect you’ve got some questions for me, right?” she asked.

  “We do. We’ve talked about some of the serial killers and other various categories of psychopaths before, but we need to focus on a certain type of individual this time.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Terrorists. Domestic terrorists. In your prior contacts and communications, did you run into anyone who might have an affinity for, maybe even evolve into, that type of expression?” asked Manny.

  She tilted her head. “You’re not working the BAU any longer, are you? Or is this a side trip to better understand the land of the deranged?”

  Sharp as ever. “No, we’re not exactly in the BAU these days. We’ve graduated, I suppose. We are involved in the next level of bad guys versus good guys. We’re now part of the CTD, a newly created special unit.”

  “Counterterrorism, huh?”

  “Yep,” said Sophie.

  Standing, Anna then paced from one side of the room to the other before eventually returning to her seat.

  “Tell me what’s going on, okay?” she asked, her voice quiet and subdued.

  Manny gave her details about New Orleans and what they’d run into, with Sophie filling in the blanks.

  After they finished, she sat still, hands now in her lap, obviously contemplating what she had heard. But it went deeper. It was more like sorting out information and filing it in a specific order, but with more intent, more insight and intuition on how that information worked. It was interesting to watch, even after seeing it a few times.

  Finally, Anna leaned back against the chair, watching his face. Her body language told Manny she wasn’t at ease.

  “What’s wrong, Anna?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if you could actually call something wrong that is as nebulous as knowledge can be. Knowledge just is. It’s what people do with that knowledge, right?”

  “That’s a true statement. Please explain why that matters in this situation.”

  “I will. Give me a few minutes to tell this story.”

  “Deal.”

  “There was this one killer I wrote to when I was seventeen, just a month before I turned eighteen. He was in a prison near Houston, Texas. On death row, I believe. He’d been arrested and convicted for brutally killing thirteen Mexican immigrants with a pair of machetes in a camp just outside San Antonio.”

  She leaned in over the table. “As you might imagine, after he’d finished his spree, the area was a complete mess. I had managed to find some pictures on a couple of those creepy hard-to-find websites. Not pretty to me now, but back then that was a different kind of party for me.”

  Anna brought her knees up toward her chin. Manny noticed she no longer attempted to hide her artificial hand.

  “Anyway, I started to notice a pattern. I finally got a copy of the transcripts of his trial—to see if the pattern was random or intentional.”

  “I remember that guy. Alvarez, right?” said Sophie.

  “Yes. Victor Alvarez.”

  “Go on,” said Manny.

  “He had killed those people in a certain order. Doing it in threes, until the last group. He obviously had to murder that last group in a four-person order.”

  Manny ran his hand through his hair, causing Anna to radiate a warm smile. “I know the wheels are turning when you do that.”

  “Yeah, guilty as charged. Let me guess about that pattern. As subconscious as it probably was, he likely sectioned and categorized them mentally into types, taking out the most dangerous to his mission first, then the others.”

  She nodded. Her smile had dissipated into a far more serious countenance. “You’re right. The three children and two elderly women in that camp were killed last. After he’d taken out the other younger, stronger adults.”

  He watched as she exhaled, her eyes wider, her heart rate obviously accelerated. The nervous little rubbing she often did with her normal hand touching her deformed limb made a reappearance.

  “Moving forward, I sent him five letters, spaced exactly seven days apart. I told him what I’d observed at the crime scene and kept asking him to tell me what he was thinking before, during, and after his massacre. That I was struggling to make sense of what was going on in my head and, if I had one, my heart. I even asked him if he thought we were demon possessed.”

  Sophie was on the edge of her seat at this point; Manny nodded for Anna to continue.

  She swallowed, appearing a little uneasy, then said, “He finally sent me the first letter. He wanted naked pictures of me in different angles. Hell, that was an easy thing for me to do for him because of who, what, I was and couldn’t have cared less if he saw my body. So I sent him what he wanted.” Anna touched her lips. “Can I get some water?”

  Manny walked over to the steel water fountain against the far wall, drew her some water in the paper cup, and took it to her, his mind racing with possibilities.

  There was a certain narcissism to everyone who walked the planet. He supposed it fueled or was fueled by a rainbow of emotions, needs, and situations. Survival, acceptance, and empowerment covered what most people needed.

  In killers who had done horrible things on a hideously grand level, that sense of self-importance was elevated to the point that, eventually, they had to tell their story.

  Yet, they also had to make sure they had a level of control first. He’d seen it a hundred times. By giving Alvarez what he asked for, Anna had given him, knowingly or not, the platform of control and dominance he needed.

  Alvarez had begun to look at this young woman as his in almost every way. Manny suspected Anna had realized that—again, knowingly or subconsciously.

  She drew from the cup, set it down, and moved her gaze from Manny to Sophie, then back to Manny, holding his attention.

  “You are still not like anyone I’ve talked to or written to over the years in terms of how you think and piece details together. Do you already know what’s next?” Anna asked.

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. I have some ideas. I know this type of binge personality. And I know he would think of you and him as intimate. That he could trust you because he saw you as his, as far as a concept like trust goes with people like Alvarez. So tell us what’s next.”

  But even as Manny finished his request, he felt the anxiety grow in him. Predictability to some extent was something he could profile in most; yet, in a few people, there was no such thing as predictable because of their own psychology. In those cases, even those people didn’t know what was coming next.

  Those few souls like that, who were riding on the devil’s cape, made him more than nervous. He felt he was about to hear about such a man.

  Anna continued. “A few weeks la
ter, I got this ten-page letter from him. For the most part, it was a bit unorganized in its content and purpose. He’d talk about himself and how he’d settled in to prison, his physical conditioning, and then how well he was doing taking classes from the local college. Then boom, he’d write a line and say something about one of his victims. Always in first person. For instance, he wrote, ‘The big man Eduardo fought hard, and I felt bad killing him, but it was him or me. I was able to save us.’”

  “Rambling isn’t that unusual with those sick bitches though,” said Sophie. “But what did he mean about saving us?”

  “Delusions of a hero?” asked Manny.

  “I think you’re right about that. That was my best guess. But that wasn’t all. Anyway after about the fifth page, I realized he was writing in a pattern. Bizarre and unnerving, but he was doing it nevertheless. And I think he was cognizant of it.”

  “What was the pattern?” asked Manny.

  “There was a design of words in sentences that began to speak to me. Like every third word was in a certain order. Anyway, he wanted me to know that he didn’t regret what he’d done and that I shouldn’t feel badly about how I felt, or something to that effect. He was telling me to do what I was designed to do. And―”

  Anna stopped, staring down at the table, her eyes moist.

  Manny waited for what was next, his pulse racing.

  It took a few moments for this young woman, who was a psychological paradox, to finish, but she did.

  “. . . And to finish what I’d started. That he’d help as would the others to whom I’d written letters, and even those who thought on a grander scale, so to speak. He said there would be words that I should look for. That they would set me free and help me down the path.”

  Sophie sat back. “Damn, you got all of that from a disorganized letter?”

  “I did. It wasn’t hard when you recognized what he was truly thinking as he wrote. I mean, most people in that same psychological boat understand the lingo. Trust me on that.”

  “Did you embrace his instruction?” asked Manny.

  “Yes, I did. At first, anyway. I was thrilled that I had some positive affirmation that I wasn’t . . . well, you know, unusual. But eventually I evolved into my own expression, acting out what I’d become.”

  Manny stood, pulled his chair over to her side, and sat close. She followed him with her eyes. They never left him.

  Here we go.

  “Anna. That evolution is what I’m after. What are you leading up to here? What others? What grander scale?”

  “I’m getting there. I received a few more letters from him, but didn’t really care anymore. We both had gotten what we wanted, more or less. Then one day, I get this package from the States. It was the size of a large manila envelope, sealed, and I had to personally sign for it. It had come from Miami, but I already knew whoever sent it wasn’t from there. No one in that world would send mail from where they lived.”

  “What was in it?” asked Sophie, learning forward again, hands clasped on top of the table.

  Anna sighed. “It had fifteen printed articles about serial killers and what they’d done. A few pictures of their victims, and two from executed killers. Stuff I’d seen a dozen times. But the last article wasn’t an article but a letter of sorts. Maybe even the beginnings of a thesis. It laid out profiles of mass murderers like Manson, serial killers like Bundy, and terrorists, from suicide bombers to people like McVeigh.”

  “So? Anyone with an Internet connection could pull that junk,” said Sophie.

  “That was my thought until I got to the last page. Whoever sent this wrote two paragraphs on justice—that true justice wasn’t governed by laws, rules, or someone’s psychology, but by a universal moral absolute. A higher righteousness with no boundaries. Justice and vengeance were unalienable rights that we should all be free to express, no matter the price. No matter what some politicians claim is the law of the land.”

  Manny rubbed his face with his hands. The long day was beginning to catch up with him, yet Anna’s story was offering new life to his thoughts regarding the killers at the warehouse. “What else did the letter say?”

  “That was about it. He drove home his point again then ended it.”

  “You said he,” replied Manny.

  “Yeah, he signed it Mr. R.”

  Sophie broke the short silence. “What does all that mean, Anna?”

  “I don’t know. I mean his take was different, you know? But it feels like the kind of people that could do something epic.”

  “Yet still a psychopath because he believed his version of whatever justice he was contemplating was the true way, no matter what that entails,” said Manny.

  “That’s true.” Anna’s voice was softer now. She reached across the table and laid a hand on Sophie’s hand, then her other hand on Manny’s arm. “You could have figured a lot of this out on your own, so why are you here, really?”

  Sighing, he patted her hand. “I had to be sure I was right. That you are what we need.”

  “Need?”

  “I’ll explain later. After we get you out of your cell.”

  CHAPTER-30

  New York had never been his idea of a lovely place to live, ever. The City that Never Sleeps was just that, enjoying what it hid in the dark. It allowed people to indulge in practically every perversion known to mankind, and then some. Any hour of the day, any day of the week. That somewhat disturbing fact alone appealed to many. In fact, he’d seen many of those vices, intimately. Some he had enjoyed immensely, some of those way-out “experiences” had earned the one-and-done label.

  He was far from prudish, but even he had his limits. Yet, he was sure he could still curl the hair of a priest during an extended period of confession.

  “No one is perfect, I hear,” he whispered to himself.

  Entering Central Park at the West 90th Street entrance, near the trail leading across Park Drive south that eventually would take him to the reservoir, he stopped. He then lit a large Cuban cigar and exhaled, taking in the rich aroma as it swirled near his bearded face. He reflected on how the aroma was indeed rich to him, yet others would turn green after only a few whiffs.

  Again, the diversity of people, and their particular tastes, rose up in his thoughts. That included what people toiled at to make their miserable livings.

  Accountants, lawyers, doctors, mail carriers, taxi drivers, whatever—they did what they did to make ends meet, but aspired to little more than that. He was one of the exceptions, however, who enjoyed the idea of what he did each and every time he did it.

  After taking another long draw from the cigar, he continued his walk toward the water.

  He supposed there weren’t many capable of doing what his vocation required, which kept him in demand and filthy rich. It had taken a few months for his clients to realize he was in the game, thanks to some subtle posts in a few chat rooms on the Darknet. But success was success no matter the path, his old, strung-out mother used to say. At least he took something from her retched existence. He still remembered that unintentional wisdom even after he’d blown her head off those years ago.

  Two fast-walking old farts dressed in wild-colored walking suits cruised past him as he turned left onto the path running along the lake. He wouldn’t be caught dead going to bed in apparel like that, let alone in public.

  Some people just have it coming to them.

  The sun was now much lower in the sky as the shadows from the newly leafed trees lengthened across the path. It was almost time. He knew that because his heart rate was rising like it always did. Always.

  After another hundred yards or so, he stepped over the short wooden fence and settled against one of the large oaks with a partial view of the reservoir. His vantage point also allowed him to watch the wide path in both directions. That would be important shortly.

  Several folks jogged, ran, or walked past him. No one said hello, or for that matter, acknowledged he was there, eye contact or not. That good old N
ew Yorker unfriendly behavior toward strangers would work to his advantage this evening.

  Five minutes later, with the shadows threatening to strangle the remaining light, a couple walking very close together, lost in their own world, strolled leisurely in his direction. They must have thought this setting, this late spring ambiance of Central Park, was created just for them. That was what lovers thought about beautiful places. He had too, once upon a time.

  When they were twenty feet away, he stepped onto the path, dropped his wallet on the cinder surface, and began to walk away from them.

  A moment later, he got the response he’d anticipated.

  “Sir. Sir. You dropped your wallet,” said the young man.

  He turned, surprise on his face as he frisked himself. He shook his head in mock disgust. He then walked toward the couple, smiling, his hand deep in his jacket pocket.

  “Thank you so much. It would have been a long trip back to California without my resources. I appreciate your honesty. Not everyone would have done what you did.”

  The young, dark-eyed woman returned his smile as she looked up at him. “We’re from Michigan, and we understand how it would be to not have your money. Besides, our parents taught us not to take what isn’t ours.”

  “Yep, she’s right about that,” chimed in the thin young man.

  One last glance around confirmed they were alone, at least momentarily. Not that it mattered to him, not tonight.

  “Thank you. Did your parents also teach you not to talk to strangers?”

  “Well, when we were younger, but I suppose we can make that call on our own these days,” she said, her smile now gone.

  You know what’s coming, don’t you?

  “She’s right about—”

  Smiling still, he pulled the Smith and Wesson that he had been given from his pocket and shot both of them between the eyes.

  CHAPTER-31

  “It’ll take at least two to three months, if then, Manny. Even I can’t get that changed,” said Josh.