by Chris Carter
‘Possibly,’ Hunter said. ‘We’ll know more when we identify her.’
‘Can you leave this with us?’ Michelle asked, referring to the footage of the first victim. ‘I’d like to analyze it better. Compare it to today’s broadcast.’
‘No problem.’
Michelle watched the images on both monitors play for a few more seconds before pausing them. The look on her face was a combination of anger, frustration and disgust. Her lips started to part as if she was about to say something, but she hesitated, weighing her words for a moment.
‘Whoever this guy is,’ she finally said. ‘He’s a gifted programmer with great knowledge of cyberspace. He covered every angle – TTL, exploited servers, hideware, registering the site in Taiwan, bouncing his telephone calls around and so on. When the broadcast was over, his website vanished, as if it were never there. No trace. He’s expertly hiding under several electronic layers of protection. For us to get to him, we need to peel them back, one by one. There’s no circumventing it. The problem is, each layer also works as an intruder’s alert . . . a warning to him. As soon as we manage to peel one back, he’ll know, giving him more than enough time to react, to create more layers if necessary.’
Hunter took a deep breath. It was very clear that their investigation would have to concentrate on computer programmers with great knowledge of cyberspace, but in Los Angeles they were everywhere: public and private organizations, schools, universities, their own garages . . . Just about everywhere you looked, you were bound to find someone with Internet expertise. They needed something more to guide them.
Michelle looked Hunter in the eye. ‘The reason why this killer is so confident is because he knows that as far as cyberspace is concerned, he’s untraceable. He’s a cyber ghost. As long as he stays there, we can’t get to him.’
Thirty-Three
Early the next morning Captain Blake was standing in front of the large pictures board set up against the south wall inside Hunter’s office when he arrived. Garcia was standing just behind her.
New snapshots of the second victim lying inside the glass coffin had already been pinned to the board. Some showed her terrified face in varied stages of desperation. Some showed tarantula hawks freeze-framed as they entered the coffin, and then again as they covered her entire body, stinging almost every inch of it.
Garcia had already run Captain Blake through what had happened in their meeting with Michelle Kelly and Harry Mills at the FBI CCD the night before.
‘Nothing from Missing Persons yet,’ Garcia announced as Hunter took off his jacket and powered up his computer. ‘This time the killer didn’t gag the victim, so their facial recognition software should have no problems matching key points, but I was on the phone to them just moments ago. No matches so far.’
Hunter nodded.
‘The research team delivered the report on tarantula hawks last night,’ Garcia said, walking back to his desk.
Hunter and Captain Blake turned to face him.
He reached for the blue folder by his keyboard and flipped it open. ‘As we suspected, this killer knew exactly what he was doing, and how to deliver incredible pain. Unlike bees, that can sting their victims only once, wasps can sting theirs multiple times, delivering the same amount of venom and ferocity with every single sting. And like I’d said, their sting is ferocious. In the Schmidt Sting Pain Index the tarantula hawk sits right at the top.’
‘The what?’ The captain interrupted him.
‘It’s a pain scale, Captain,’ Hunter clarified. ‘It rates the pain caused by the sting of large insects.’
‘That’s correct,’ Garcia said with a nod. ‘The scale ranges from zero to four, four being the most painful. Only two insects rate at four – the tarantula hawk and the bullet ant.’
‘How common are they?’ Captain Blake asked.
‘In America, fairly.’ Garcia flipped a page on the report and pulled a face. ‘Actually, the tarantula hawk is the official state insect of New Mexico.’
The captain looked at him blankly. ‘Do American states have official insects?’
‘Apparently.’
‘What’s the official insect of California, then?’
Garcia shrugged.
‘The dog-face butterfly,’ Hunter said, and with a hand movement urged Garcia to continue.
He did.
‘In California only a small number of species can be found, mainly around the Mojave Desert area and parts of southern California. Among those species, according to the entomologist we’ve spoken with, is one of the most intriguing ones – the Pepsis menechma.’ He pointed to the pictures board. ‘The one used by the killer.’
‘What’s so intriguing about them?’ Hunter asked.
Garcia closed the folder and returned it to his desk. ‘In essence, tarantula hawks are lone wasps,’ he explained. ‘They don’t live in nests, or hives, or any sort of community. They don’t move in groups either.’ His shoulders moved up and down ever so slightly, in a what-do-you-know kind of shrug. ‘With the exception of a handful of species.’
‘The one the killer used is one of them,’ the captain concluded. She didn’t even attempt to use the scientific name Garcia had read out moments earlier.
‘Exactly,’ Garcia confirmed. ‘That particular species is very similar to the Brazilian one that put me in hospital when I was a kid. They live in large hives, they hunt and attack in groups and they have one of the most powerful, painful and venomous stings out of all tarantula hawks. They are also diurnal creatures, which means that they don’t like darkness very much. If they are forced to move around in it, they get very angry. And that’s when things get ugly in a hurry.’
Everyone’s eyes moved back to the pictures board. At the center of it was a large, zoomed-in photograph of a tarantula hawk in mid-flight.
‘So there’s no way we can know where he got them.’
‘According to the entomologist,’ Garcia explained, ‘if we find her body before it decomposes, we might be able to trace their location of origin by chemically analyzing the venom they left in her bloodstream. How much help that can prove to be, no one knows.’
Thirty-Four
Garcia gave everyone a moment for his words to sink in, before reaching for two copies of a new printout that was on his desk.
‘As far as the media is concerned, we’ve been a little lucky,’ he said, handing the printouts to Hunter and Captain Blake. ‘Nothing was actually picked up by the major press, but there’s been a little speculation on the Internet. As you know, the broadcast was cloned and uploaded to several video network sites.’
The printout was of a current affairs web page. In the bottom left-hand corner there was a small snapshot of the woman lying inside the glass coffin. Tarantula hawks were all over her. The caption underneath the picture read: “Reality or Hoax?”
‘It’s a small article,’ Garcia continued. ‘It just talks about the on-screen voting process, and summarizes what happened next.’ He gave Hunter and Captain Blake a brief smile. ‘In this particular case, Hollywood came to our rescue.’
‘How so?’ the captain asked.
‘At the moment everyone’s best guess is that that broadcast was part of a publicity stunt for a new horror/reality-style movie. It’s been done before. The trick is to start a buzz by trying to make the public believe it’s a real documentary rather than a Hollywood production.’
The captain returned the printout to Garcia. ‘That suits us just fine. Let them believe the Hollywood bullshit.’ She turned and faced the pictures board again. ‘But they do have a point. This does look like the storyboard for a horror movie. Stung to death by giant wasps, almost dissolved in a caustic soda solution. What the hell?’
‘Most feared deaths,’ Hunter said.
‘What?’
‘The options this killer gave us,’ Hunter followed up. ‘With the first victim – burned to death or drowned. With the second one – buried alive or eaten alive. Why these particular methods?’
He walked up to his computer, brought up his browser and called a web page. ‘Well, I found out that those particular methods are among the ten worst ways to die as voted by the public.’
Garcia and Captain Blake repositioned themselves behind Hunter’s desk. The list on his screen started at number ten and counted down to number one. The death methods mentioned and used by the killer were all there. Drowning was at number six. Burned alive was at two. Eaten alive (by insects or animals) sat at number five, while buried alive held the third position. Voted number one most feared and painful death was being dumped into an alkali bath.
Captain Blake felt her core temperature drop a few degrees.
‘I found several lists,’ Hunter explained. ‘Most of them are just a variation of that one. Different positions but most of the same death methods.’
‘You think that’s what he’s doing?’ the captain asked. ‘Running through a crazy list of deaths he found on the Internet?’
‘I’m not sure what he’s doing, Captain. But he could’ve easily come up with that list by himself.’
Captain Blake glared at Hunter.
‘If I hadn’t showed you this list and just asked you to write down the worst ten death methods you could think of, I’m sure you’d have at least six or seven of those in there.’
Captain Blake thought about it for an instant.
‘Buried alive, burned alive, eaten alive, drowning . . . all of those are universally feared deaths,’ Hunter added.
‘OK, so maybe he created his own list of fucked-up deaths,’ the captain agreed. ‘My question still stands. Do you think that’s what he’s doing? Going through a crazy list just for the fun of it?’
‘It’s possible,’ Hunter admitted after an awkward pause.
‘Sonofabitch. And what about this?’ Captain Blake pointed to one of the printouts on the board, referring to the word centered at the bottom of the screen during the broadcast. ‘GUILTY. He was obviously telling us that in his sick mind, he considered that woman guilty of something.’
‘Possible,’ Garcia said. ‘But the problem is that if this guy really is a psychopath, then she could’ve been guilty of just about anything, Captain. She didn’t even need to know him. She could’ve stepped on his toe inside a crammed subway train, or rejected his advances inside a bar, or maybe he simply didn’t like the way she styled her hair, or looked at him. To a psychopath, any reason is a reason.’
Garcia was right. Psychopaths had a very distorted vision of reality. Their emotions were usually so detached that the simplest of things could affect them in the most unpredictable ways, and just about anything could trigger an extremely violent reaction. They usually considered themselves superior to anyone else around them. More intelligent. More attractive. More talented. More everything. They didn’t cope well with rejection, no matter how small, considering it an aggression against their superiority. They were very easily offended, and they often felt disgusted by the mundanity of other people’s lives. In general, psychopaths were usually impulsive, had little self-control, and their crimes tended to be spur-of-the-moment affairs, but some were very capable of more elaborate planning. Some were even capable of keeping the monster inside them on a leash until it was time to let him loose.
‘Or he could just be playing on the gullibility of people,’ Hunter finally said.
Captain Blake shot him a what-the-hell-is-that-supposed-to-mean look.
‘Opinion manipulation or, in simplest terms, rumor,’ Hunter said, stabbing his index finger over the word GUILTY on one of the printouts on the board. ‘That’s all some people need to make up their minds about a subject, or a person, Captain. It’s a psychological trick. A way to steer someone’s opinion one way or another. It’s the press and the media’s most powerful weapon. They use it every day.’
‘Opinion manipulation?’ the captain asked.
‘That’s right. It happens to all of us, whether we understand it or not. That’s why it’s such a powerful trick. If you see someone’s picture in the paper, or on TV, with the word guilty in large letters at the bottom of it, subconsciously your brain starts to lean toward a preconceived, force-fed opinion about that person. “If it’s written, then it must be true.” You don’t need to read the article. You don’t need to know the person’s name. You don’t even need to know what he or she is supposed to have done. It’s the power of rumor. And that power is strong.’
‘And today’s society thrives on voting on the outcome of other people’s lives,’ Garcia said.
Captain Blake turned to face him.
He cracked his knuckles and explained. ‘Just turn on the TV, Captain, and you’ll be inundated with reality shows of people in a house, in a jungle, on an island, on a boat, on stage, you name it. The public is asked to vote on everything, from what and if they’ll eat, to where they’ll sleep, who they are coupled with, silly tasks, if they should stay or go, the list is endless. This killer just stepped it up a notch.’
‘But he did it in a very clever way.’ Hunter took over. ‘He never asked the public to vote on whether she would live or die. That was already decided. Psychologically that’s enough to clear most people’s conscience.’
Captain Blake thought about this for a beat.
‘Meaning . . . why would people feel guilty?’ she said, staring at a printout of the woman lying inside the glass coffin. ‘It’s not their fault she’s inside that coffin. They didn’t put her there. She was going to die anyway. They just played along and picked how.’
Hunter agreed. ‘The problem is the reason why reality TV shows are so successful, and why there are so many of them, is because they’re designed to give people the false impression of power. Power to control what happens in a given situation. Power to decide other people’s fate, so to speak. And that power is one of the most addictive feelings there is. That’s why they keep coming back for more.’
Thirty-Five
Sitting around, waiting for the Missing Persons facial recognition program to hit a match, wasn’t something either Hunter or Garcia was prepared to do.
Earlier in the morning Hunter had checked with the city psychologist who had been assigned to help Anita Lee Parker, the first victim’s widow, cope with her grieving. According to Doctor Greene, Anita was dealing with it in the worst way possible. She was still in denial. Her brain refused to understand what had happened to her husband. She’d spent the last two days sitting in her living room, waiting for Kevin to come home. Deep depression was starting to set in. The saddest thing was that as a consequence, Lilia, her baby daughter, was starting to be neglected. Doctor Greene had given Anita a prescription for antidepressants, but if she didn’t start to get better soon mental health and child welfare organizations would have to get involved.
Hunter’s primary intention was to show Anita a snapshot of the second victim. Check if she recognized the woman at all. Maybe Kevin knew her. Maybe she was a friend of the family. If they could establish that both victims knew each other, on any sort of level, it would at least steer the investigation onto steadier ground. The randomness with which they believed the killer picked his victims wouldn’t look so random. But right now Anita Lee Parker wouldn’t be able to answer any of their questions. Her subconscious was blocking out anything that forced her to deal with the tragedy of her husband’s death. She probably wouldn’t even recognize Hunter and Garcia. It would be no surprise if the entire memory of when they met, only two days ago, had been completely erased.
With Anita still in shock, their best bet was Kevin’s best friend and work colleague, Emilio.
Saturday was Next-Gen’s busiest day, and at 12:28 in the afternoon the shop was full of people browsing and having a go at the latest releases. Emilio was helping a customer choose between two titles when Hunter and Garcia entered the shop. As Emilio saw them, his entire demeanor changed.
‘Can we have a quick chat, Emilio?’ Hunter said, approaching him when he was done with the customer.
Emilio nodded nervous
ly. He guided them through a door behind the cashier’s counter and into the staff’s break room at the back of the shop.
Emilio looked tired and nervous. There was no disguising the dark circles under his eyes.
No one took a seat. Emilio stood beside an old Formica table at the center of the room, and Hunter and Garcia by the door.
‘Everything OK?’ Garcia asked, referring to Emilio’s noticeable trepidation, something that hadn’t been there the first time they met.
Two quick nods. ‘Yes, sure.’ He wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes.
‘Did you remember something about Kevin that we should know?’
‘No. Nothing. I told you everything already.’
‘Well, something happened,’ Garcia said. ‘Because truthfully, your poker face sucks.’
Emilio finally met Garcia’s stare.
‘Whatever it is, we’re going to find out one way or another, so you might as well tell us and save everyone some time.’
Emilio took a deep breath and looked down at the floor.
Hunter and Garcia waited.
‘I was offered the manager’s position here at the shop. Kevin’s old job.’
‘OK . . .?’ Garcia was still waiting for something else.
‘That’s it,’ Emilio said, running a nervous hand over his mustache.
‘And what is the problem?’
An uneasy chuckle. ‘I know how it goes, man. If I take the job you’ll start thinking that I had something to do with what happened to Kevin. It’s a motive, isn’t it? Me taking over his old job. But believe me, I had no idea they would ask me to be the manager. I’m not even the most senior employee here. They should ask Tom. He would be a good manager.’ His voice almost croaked. ‘Kevin was my best friend. He was like my brother . . .’
Garcia gave Emilio a sympathetic smile and lifted his hand, stopping him. ‘Emilio, let me cut you off there. You’ve been watching way too many CSIs, or Criminal Intent, or whatever it is that you watch.’
