by Chris Carter
Hunter scratched his forehead. He knew that, for now, he had to play the caller’s game.
‘Everyone knows what to expect from BURIED. EATEN is the unknown. What would you use? How would it be done? What could possibly eat a human being alive? Natural human curiosity would tip the scale toward the unknown.’
A pause was followed by a loud laugh and then handclaps. ‘Very good, Detective. As I said, society as a whole is quite predictable, isn’t it? It was a done deal from the start.’
Hunter said nothing.
‘It must eat you up inside, mustn’t it, Detective?’
‘What must?’
‘The knowledge that the vast majority of people who watched that online show enjoyed it. They probably even cheered every sting. They loved watching her die.’
No reply.
‘And you know what? I bet that they are dying with anticipation for the next show.’
Captain Blake shivered with anger.
‘Well, I must bid you all farewell. I’ve got things to do.’
The line disconnected.
Thirty
The next show.
Those words seemed to echo inside Hunter’s office forever. They all knew exactly what that meant, and it filled everyone with dread.
The first thing Hunter did was to ask his research team to come up with a list of possible meanings for SSV, the three letters that had appeared in the top left-hand corner of the screen at the beginning of the broadcast. He had also asked them to prepare a report on tarantula hawks. Was the species found in California? Can anyone breed them in their back garden, or do they require special environment, conditions, etc.?
Garcia contacted the Missing Persons Unit again and emailed them a snapshot of the woman’s face. They needed to identify her as soon as possible.
Operations called Hunter as soon as he had disconnected from the call with the killer. This time he hadn’t bounced the call all over Los Angeles. He had used a prepaid cellphone. No GPS. But the call didn’t last long enough for them to be able to accurately triangulate it. The call had originated from somewhere in Studio City.
The broadcast and Hunter’s telephone conversation with the killer had left everyone shaken, but Hunter knew he had to keep his focus. He and Garcia left the PAB and drove to the bus depot in Athens, south Los Angeles. They needed to determine if Kevin Lee Parker, the first victim, had boarded any bus on route 207 on that Monday evening. With that, they could establish if the victim had been abducted in the stretch between the bus stop and his house in Jefferson Park or during the short walk from the Next-Gen Games Shop and the bus stop in Hyde Park.
Four out of the six drivers who had driven route 207 on Monday evening were on duty tonight. Hunter and Garcia struck it lucky with the third driver they interviewed. After showing him a portrait photograph of Kevin Lee Parker, the tall and skinny man nodded and told both detectives that he remembered Kevin because he was a regular – always took the bus from the stop at Hyde Park Boulevard and 10th Avenue, and usually around 7:00 p.m. The driver said that Kevin was a polite man, always said ‘hello’ as he boarded the bus. He couldn’t one hundred percent remember if Kevin was alone or not, but he believed he was. The driver also couldn’t remember if Kevin had gotten off at the stop at Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard, his usual stop.
After leaving the bus depot, Hunter and Garcia drove to the intersection between Crenshaw and West Jefferson Boulevard. Kevin Lee Parker’s house was a ten-minute walk from the bus stop there. They parked the car and walked the route twice. If Kevin had stuck to West Jefferson Boulevard, and then turned right into South Victoria Avenue, the whole trajectory from the bus stop to his house would’ve taken him down well-lit and busy roads, but cost him an extra three minutes. The fastest route would’ve been to cut through the West Angeles Church’s car park, just past the Chevron Gas Station on the corner of Crenshaw and West Jefferson, and then carry on through the back alleys, behind South Victoria Avenue.
The West Angeles Church had no security cameras outside, and its car park was located at the back of the building, well hidden from any roads. According to the schedule posted at the front of the church, there were no services on Monday evenings. The car park would’ve been empty and concealed in the shadows of three not-so-bright lampposts. Snatching Kevin from there, or any of the back alleys on the way to his house, would’ve been child’s play: no one would’ve witnessed it at all.
Thirty-One
The Los Angeles FBI headquarters in Wilshire Boulevard was a seventeen-story-high concrete and glass box-structure that looked more like a prison than a federal law-enforcement building. With small, one-way, special dark glass windows pigeonholed between long and thin cement pillars, all that was missing were thick metal bars and guard towers around the perimeter. In short, it looked like every FBI building around the country – nondescript and enigmatic.
It was coming up to eight in the evening when Garcia parked his car in the parking lot directly behind the FBI building. The lot was far from empty. Garcia picked a spot next to a shiny black Cadillac with tinted windows and chromed wheels.
‘Wow,’ he said as he turned off his engine. ‘I’m surprised his license plate isn’t “IMFBI”.’
Before getting to the main entrance doors, both detectives had to go up a set of concrete stairs, across an open-roof green garden and down a CCTV-monitored corridor. They pushed open the heavy, thick glass doors and stepped into a well-lit and pleasantly air-conditioned reception lobby.
Two attractive and conservatively dressed receptionists, who were sitting behind a black-granite reception counter, smiled as they entered the building. Only one stood up.
Hunter and Garcia identified themselves, handing her their credentials. The receptionist quickly typed something into her computer terminal and waited for the application to reply. It did so in less than five seconds, confirming their names and ranks with the LAPD. It also displayed an identifying photograph of each detective. Satisfied, the receptionist returned their identifications to them together with two blue and white visitors’ badges.
‘An agent will escort you inside,’ she said.
A minute later a tall man in a dark suit approached them. ‘LAPD Detectives Hunter and Garcia.’ He nodded his greeting. No handshakes. ‘Please follow me.’
They were escorted through two sets of security doors, down a long hallway, then through a third set of security doors and into an elevator, which descended one floor to the FBI Cybercrime Division. The elevator opened onto a shiny, hardwood corridor, where hanging brass fixtures with several portraits in gilded frames lined the walls. Neither Hunter nor Garcia recognized any of the people in the photographs.
The glass double doors at the end of the hallway were pulled open before they got to them.
‘I’ll take it from here, thanks,’ the woman said.
The escort nodded at her, then at Hunter and Garcia again, before turning on the balls of his feet and heading back toward the elevator.
Both detectives recognized Michelle Kelly’s voice from the conference call earlier, but she was nothing like either of them had pictured her.
Michelle Kelly looked to be around twenty-eight years old. She was five foot eight, with long, raven-black dyed hair. Her fringe was spiked, falling over her forehead in a skate-punk way. Her deep green eyes were heavily framed by black eyeliner and pale green eye shadow. Her full lips were delicately accented by red lipstick. She had a thin, silver-loop nose-ring through her left nostril, and a second loop ring through the right edge of her bottom lip. She was wearing black Doc Martens over tight black jeans. Her T-shirt was black and red, with a flying skull design. It read ‘Avenged Sevenfold’.
‘Detective Hunter,’ she said, offering her hand. Both of her arms were completely covered in tattoos, all the way to her wrists, which in turn were lined with different bracelets. Her fingernails were manicured and done in black nail varnish. She looked completely at ease and entirely self-confident.
> The first thought that crossed Hunter’s mind was that Michelle Kelly hadn’t become an FBI agent out of choice. Hunter had been to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, more than once. He had dealt with agents and their section chiefs. He had read their rulebook. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was still run under a classical approach – old school. Dress codes, hairstyles and rules of conduct were strictly enforced, especially when inside an official building. Facial piercings and clearly visible tattoos were simply not allowed. Of course, exceptions were made for deep-cover agents who had to infiltrate gangs, cults, criminal organizations, etc., but a regular person applying for a place at the academy with his or her arms covered in ink would’ve been turned away at the gates. Hunter’s conclusion was that Michelle Kelly probably owed the federal government a debt. Maybe she had been a master hacker in her former life. Someone with cyber skills the FBI didn’t have and couldn’t ignore. They had finally caught up with her, and a deal was placed on the table – a very long spell inside or a position with the Cybercrime Division. She took the job.
Hunter took her hand. ‘Ms. Kelly, thanks for seeing us.’ She had soft hands but a very firm grip. ‘This is my partner, Detective Carlos Garcia.’
They shook hands.
‘Please call me Michelle,’ she said, showing them inside a large room that was chilled to a few degrees below comfortable.
Unlike the LAPD Computer Crimes Unit, which resembled a large open-plan high-tech newsroom, the FBI Cybercrime Division looked to be in a league of its own. First impressions were that the inside of the room looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Lights were blinking on and off just about everywhere they looked. The east wall was taken by six massive monitors, each one showing maps, images or lines of data neither Hunter nor Garcia understood. Sixteen spacious desks, covered with monitors and high-tech computer equipment, were scattered around the room. There was no separate enclosure. No office. No visible hierarchy. Inside that room, everyone was equal.
Michelle guided them to the desk closest to the north wall. ‘Dennis Baxter gave me very few details. He said that it would be better if you ran me through the whole story.’ She dragged two chairs from the nearby desks and positioned them in front of her own.
A man in his mid twenties approached them. He had wavy, rust-colored hair, thin lips, longish eyebrows and large and round, almost black eyes. He looked like a pensive owl – the spitting image of what most people imagine a geek would look like, without the thick glasses.
‘This is Harry Mills,’ Michelle said, making the necessary introductions. ‘He’s part of our unit, and a computer genius, with the diplomas to prove it.’
More handshakes.
Harry took a seat and Hunter ran them through everything that had happened so far. Michelle and Harry listened without interrupting.
‘And you managed to record most of the broadcast from the first murder?’ Michelle asked when Hunter was done.
He retrieved a pen drive from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘It’s all in there.’
She quickly connected it to a USB port on the computer on her desk, and for the next seventeen minutes no one said a word.
Thirty-Two
When the footage ended, Michelle pressed the ‘esc’ key on her keyboard. Hunter noticed her hands were not as steady as they were before.
Harry let go of a breath that seemed to have been stuck in his throat for the past seventeen minutes.
‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘Until late this afternoon I had never seen anyone die. I’ve seen pictures of dead bodies . . . I was present during an autopsy, but never actually seen anyone die, never mind being tortured and murdered. Now I’ve seen two.’
Hunter explained the details of his first telephone conversation with the killer, and how the alkali bath came to be.
‘And you believe he tricked you?’ Michelle asked.
Hunter nodded. ‘He knew beforehand that I would choose water. It was all part of the show.’
Michelle finally blinked. ‘Can I get you guys some coffee or something? I certainly need a drink. My throat feels like the Nevada desert.’
‘Coffee would be great, thanks,’ Hunter said.
‘Yeah, for me too,’ Garcia added.
‘I’ll get it,’ Harry said, already getting up.
‘You said that he used an IP address for this transmission, not a web address like the one today?’ Michelle asked.
‘That’s right,’ Hunter said. ‘According to Dennis, it was probably a hijacked IP address.’
Michelle nodded. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all, but that’s strange.’
‘What is?’ Hunter asked.
Harry came back with four coffees, a small jug of milk, a container with cubes of brown and white sugar and sachets of sweetener.
‘The fact that the first murder was practically a for-your-eyes-only broadcast,’ Michelle explained, ‘but the second one was let loose over the World Wide Web.’
Hunter tilted his head to one side. ‘Well, according to the caller, the reason why he made the second broadcast a more public affair was because I was no fun the first time around. I didn’t play his game the way he wanted me to.’
‘But you don’t believe that,’ Harry said, handing both detectives a cup of coffee.
Hunter shook his head. ‘He was too well prepared.’
‘He was,’ Michelle agreed. ‘And that’s exactly why it’s strange he didn’t go for a public broadcast the first time around. He already had everything in place. We’ve checked. The domain www.pickadeath.com was registered twenty-nine days ago with a server in Taiwan. I don’t think he did that just in case. He knew he would go public, and that gives us a second huge problem.’
‘Which is?’ Garcia asked.
‘Today’s broadcast was live for exactly twenty-one minutes and eighteen seconds. It received over fifteen thousand hits while it was online. But we’re now living in the social network era. Everyone shares everything.’
‘The footage was cloned,’ Hunter said, anticipating what Michelle was leading to.
‘It was,’ Michelle admitted. ‘Two minutes after the transmission ended, snippets of it were uploaded to several video and social network sites such as YouTube, Dailymotion and Facebook.’
Hunter and Garcia said nothing.
‘Unfortunately that was inevitable,’ Harry added. ‘Once something this weird hits the World Wide Web, it has the potential to go viral. Luckily for us, that potential didn’t materialize. The video has spread a little over the net, but nothing close to going viral. Because we were able to go to work as soon as the transmission ended, we were also able to limit its spread.’
‘We monitor thousands of video and social network websites around the world,’ Michelle explained. ‘As soon as a snippet springs up in one of those, we ask the site webmasters to take it down. So far, they are all cooperating.’
‘The killer knew very well this would happen,’ Garcia said. ‘I mean, snippets, or even the entire original broadcast, spreading over the Internet. I’m sure he was counting on it. He’s having fun torturing and killing his victims. And the more people who watch it, the better.’
No one said anything.
Michelle clicked a few icons on her computer and the image of the woman lying inside the glass coffin filled the large monitor to her right. The first victim, sitting inside the glass tank, was on the monitor to her left.
‘We automatically record any Internet transmission that we deem suspicious,’ she said. ‘We obviously started recording this as soon as we came across it. I think we managed to get it all the way from the beginning.’ She hit the ‘play’ button.
Hunter nodded, looking at the images. ‘You did.’
‘Judging by the devices he created,’ Harry said, pointing to the glass tank and the see-through coffin on Michelle’s screens, ‘this guy is a pretty good handyman, with a decent understanding of engineering.’
‘I have no doubt,’ Garcia agreed.
�
��Any luck tracing his call?’ Harry asked.
Garcia shook his head and explained that the first time around the killer had bounced his call to the LAPD all over Los Angeles.
‘But not the second time?’
‘No. This time he used a prepaid cellphone. No GPS. The call originated from Studio City, but it didn’t last long enough for it to be properly triangulated.’
Harry looked pensive for a moment.
‘Do you have an ID for her yet?’ Michelle asked, indicating the woman victim.
‘We’re working on it,’ Garcia replied.
‘How about the first victim?’
Garcia nodded and gave her a very quick résumé of Kevin Lee Parker.
Michelle’s attention returned to the images playing on the monitor to her right – the woman lying inside the glass coffin. ‘These were only on the screen for exactly sixty seconds.’ She pointed to the letters and numbers in the top left- and right-hand corners of the picture – SSV and 678. ‘Do you know what they mean?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Clues to who the victim might be?’ Harry suggested.
Garcia shrugged. ‘So that’s not a technical acronym? Something computer related?’
‘Nothing that I can see having any relevance in this context,’ Michelle replied, looking at Harry.
He agreed with a head gesture. ‘From the top of my head – Storage Server, Systems Software Verification, Static Signature Verification, Smart Security Vector . . . None of that makes any sense here.’ He paused and looked at the monitor to Michelle’s left – Kevin Lee Parker bound and gagged inside the glass tank. ‘Did the same happen during the first broadcast? I can see you didn’t start recording the footage from the beginning. Did the same, or a different combination of letters and numbers, appear?’
‘No, nothing,’ Hunter replied. ‘The only letters that appeared were the ones that formed the chemical formula for sodium hydroxide.’
‘So “SSV 678” must be something directly related to the woman,’ Harry concluded.
