by Chris Carter
The place had gotten relatively busier by the time Michelle got there, twenty-five minutes after she came off the phone with Hunter. She was wearing skintight, stone-washed blue jeans with a natural wear-and-tear over her right knee, black boots and an old MotÖrhead vest under a thin black-leather jacket with silver details. Her hair was loose and tousled in a ‘rock chick’ style. Her smoky-eyed makeup added to the look perfectly, and as she crossed the bar floor to where Hunter was sitting it was hard not to notice a few heads turning.
Hunter stood up to greet her, and her lips cracked into something that he wasn’t sure if it was a smile or not.
‘I would’ve never guessed you drank here,’ she said, taking off her jacket. Strangely, under the dim bar lights, the bright colors of the tattoos on her arms appeared more vivid.
‘Sometimes,’ Hunter replied, indicating the seat across the small table from him. ‘I ordered you a Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke. I hope you don’t mind.’ The drink was already on the table.
Michelle half looked, half squinted at him. ‘How did you know I drank JD and Diet Coke?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘I guessed.’
More of a squint this time as she studied his face. ‘No, you didn’t. You knew. How did you know?’
Hunter took a seat and sipped his drink.
‘How did you know I drink Jack Daniel’s and Diet Coke?’ Michelle’s voice was more demanding this time, but not aggressively so.
Hunter put his drink down. ‘Just simple observation.’
His answer didn’t suffice.
Her stare didn’t soften.
‘You have a picture frame on your desk,’ Hunter finally explained.
Michelle thought about it for a moment.
Almost hidden behind one of the computer monitors on her desk was a photograph of Michelle with the vocalist and the guitarist of an American rock band called Hinder. They were all smiling and raising their glasses toward the camera in a toasting gesture. The band members were clearly drinking whiskey shots, while Michelle’s glass was filled with what look liked Coke, though the look in her eyes betrayed a sober state. The picture frame the photograph was in was a novelty Jack Daniel’s bottle-shaped frame.
Michelle’s smile was sincere. ‘That’s not bad,’ she said. ‘But how did you know I drank Diet Coke and not regular Coke, or Pepsi, or Tab, or something similar?’
‘The wastebasket by your desk,’ Hunter replied.
A new smile. Michelle knew that at any given time there would be at least one can of Diet Coke in her wastebasket or on her desk. She much preferred it to coffee, and drank several cans of it a day. ‘That’s not bad at all.’ She reached for her drink and touched glasses with Hunter. ‘Here’s to observation and simple deduction. No wonder you’re a detective. And yes, JD and Diet Coke is my favorite drink. Thank you.’ She had a quick sip before her eyes darted over Hunter’s left shoulder, lingering there for a few seconds.
‘Everything OK?’ Hunter asked without turning around.
‘There was a guy sitting behind you at the bar, right at the very end by the entrance. He just left, but I think I know him from somewhere.’
‘Short blond hair, nose ring, a two-day-old stubble, about one hundred and forty pounds . . . Was wearing a jeans jacket over a black T-shirt and drinking beer with tequila chasers?’ Hunter asked. Still he didn’t turn around.
‘That’s him,’ Michelle replied. ‘Do you know him?’
Hunter shook his head. ‘I saw him sitting there when I came in. Looked like he’d been there for a while.’
Michelle chuckled. ‘You saw him when you came in, probably for a couple of seconds, and you remember all that about him?’
Hunter half nodded, half shrugged.
‘You do that observation thing without even knowing that you’re doing it anymore, don’t you? A good detective is never off duty, always watchful, always prepared.’
Hunter said nothing.
Her eyes circled the bar area for a quick instant before she leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. ‘OK. Test. Group of four over your left shoulder by the bar counter, about halfway up. Hair color?’
Hunter sat back, having another sip of his Scotch, his eyes studying Michelle.
‘C’mon, humor me, Robert. Hair color?’
‘Both women are blonde,’ Hunter finally said, without looking over his shoulder. ‘Though neither of them is natural. One has shoulder-length hair; the other one’s is slightly longer, pulled back into a ponytail. One of the men has light brown curly hair; the other guy has dyed black wavy hair with pronounced sideburns.’
‘Age group?’
‘All four in their early thirties.’
‘Drinks?’
‘The women are drinking white wine, the men are both having beer – curly hair is drinking Mexican with a lemon slice down the bottle’s neck. Wavy hair is drinking Bud.’
‘Anything else you can tell me?’ Michelle asked.
‘It’s probably their first double date, because all four of them seem a little tense. Body language indicated that wavy hair and ponytail blonde will hit it on, probably tonight, but the other two, I’m not so sure. She doesn’t look very impressed. She’s probably there more to help her friend.’
Michelle looked at Hunter with a faint smile on her lips but said nothing for a moment or two, obviously weighing up something in her mind. ‘You certainly are a very interesting and intriguing man, Robert.’
Hunter wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.
Michelle had another sip of her drink and drew in a long, heavy breath. ‘We came across a new piece of information today.’ Her tone went serious. Playtime was definitely over.
‘About this afternoon’s broadcast?’
Hunter already knew that the video had gone viral. Snippets, snapshots and even the full nineteen minutes and thirty-four seconds of it had been uploaded to so many different Internet sites no one could keep track anymore. If there were someone out there who hadn’t seen it yet, they would soon.
‘Actually, we think it might have affected the previous one too, but there’s no way we can be sure.’
It was Hunter’s turn to lean forward and place his elbows on the table.
‘I’ve told you this before,’ Michelle proceeded. ‘But we don’t really come across offenders who can shield themselves so proficiently from a FBI Cybercrime Division counterattack. And though I’m sure that we would eventually find a way through his defense system, I’m aware that we just don’t have the time, because every time he transmits, someone else gets tortured and murdered.’ She paused and finished the rest of her drink in one large gulp, her hands just a little unsteady. It wasn’t hard for Hunter to guess that images of the killer’s third victim being dismembered on the rack were popping into her head as she spoke.
‘During today’s broadcast,’ Michelle carried on, ‘we again threw everything we had at it, and we got exactly the same result as before – nothing. Every time we got past one of his defense layers, there was a thicker one waiting for us just behind it.’
Hunter could see the frustration building up in her eyes.
‘But this time we weren’t the only ones who tried launching a counterattack.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had already contacted the head of the FBI Cybercrime Division in Washington. Their office deals mainly with cyber terrorism, which is great, because I knew they would approach the killer’s transmission in a different way.’ She tilted her head slightly to one side in an almost coy gesture. ‘I had also got in touch with a very good friend of mine who lives in Michigan. Someone I knew before I joined the FBI. He’s not part of any law-enforcement agency, but apart from Harry he’s the best programmer and cyber hacker I know. I thought that maybe he could help, especially because I know he wouldn’t look at the transmission from a law-enforcer’s point of view.’
She paused, maybe waiting for some sort of disapproving look or words to come from Hunter for f
ailing to consult him first. There were neither.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Did they have better luck than you?’
‘That’s the problem, Robert,’ Michelle said. ‘Neither could even see the site.’
‘What? Why?’
‘They were blocked out.’
Hunter’s frown deepened.
‘The killer used the same kind of “IP address exclusion” program that blocked us out from Carlos’ wife’s transmission yesterday.’
Hunter was trying to process this new piece of information in silence.
‘As I told you before,’ Michelle said, ‘a computer’s IP address works in the same way a telephone number does. It also has a prefix that identifies the country, the state and even the city where the computer is located.’
Hunter acknowledged it.
‘Well, that’s exactly how the killer did it. He blocked off every IP address from outside California.’
‘The rest of the world too?’
Michelle nodded. ‘California, that’s it. No one else was allowed to watch it.’
Hunter breathed out slowly. The new question now banging a gong inside his head was: why would the killer do such a thing? Since day one, Hunter feared that all this killer wanted to do was to broadcast a morbid and brutal ‘killing show’. Something that would mimic the hundreds of reality TV and cable programs fighting for viewing space inside people’s homes. Hunter figured that maybe what the killer wanted was to prove how messed-up the world really was. How a celebrity- and ‘reality contest’-obsessed society would take part and vote on absolutely anything, even murder, if dressed up and presented to them in the right way. And the one thing all these game shows fight for is audience. The more the better, the more successful the show. So why restrict it only to California, when through the Internet he could’ve broadcast to the world?
As if reading Hunter’s thoughts, Michelle said, ‘No, I can’t come up with a single reason why he would do that either.’
They both went silent for a while.
‘I haven’t had the time to reanalyze the footage from this afternoon yet,’ Michelle finally said. Paused. Looked down at her glass, and then back at Hunter. ‘No. I’m lying. I haven’t had the stomach to reanalyze it yet. And I’m dreading the fact that I will have to. I’m dreading the fact that we can’t get to him, and sooner or later he’ll broadcast again.’
For the first time Hunter saw a hint of fear creep into Michelle’s eyes. The kind of fear that takes shape during the day and then re-forms much stronger in nightmares. Tonight, Michelle would do anything not to go to sleep.
Eighty-Five
Hunter and Michelle stayed at the Rainbow until closing time, but soon after Michelle’s revelation that the killer had blocked out every IP address from outside California, it became clear that both of their brains needed a break from the case, even if only for a few hours. Hunter did his best to lighten the mood and distance the subject from their investigation.
Alcohol had started to relax them, and they talked about music, films, hobbies, drinks, food, even sports. Hunter found out that Michelle could ballroom-dance, and had once knocked an FBI instructor out with a kick to the groin after he tried to grope her during a hand-to-hand combat class. In turn, Michelle found out that Hunter had never been outside the USA, couldn’t stand cauliflower, and when he was a kid he had taught himself how to play keyboards and joined a band just to impress a girl. It didn’t work. She fell for the guitar player.
After the Rainbow shut for the night, Hunter put Michelle in a cab and took one himself.
Hunter must have nodded off sometime during the early hours of the morning, because, when he awakened, the day was just breaking outside his living-room window. His neck muscles were stiff, and every joint in his body ached with the irritation of falling asleep in an uncomfortable chair.
He had a quick shower and an even quicker breakfast before calling Garcia and telling him that he was through with the waiting game and had decided to pay Thomas Paulsen a visit that morning. True, he had nothing to really warrant an interview with the software millionaire other than the fact that Christina Stevenson, their second victim, had written a very damaging exposé on how he had sexually harassed many of his employees over a very long period of time. An exposé that had cost Paulsen millions, wrecked his twenty-seven-year marriage and severely damaged his relationship with his only daughter. Though Hunter also knew that they had nothing to link Paulsen to their first or third victim, experience had taught him that a face-to-face could reveal much more in a few minutes than days of research sitting behind a desk.
PaulsenSystems was located just off Ventura Freeway, in the very affluent San Fernando Valley neighborhood of Woodland Hills, in northwest Los Angeles. Hunter had called the company just to make sure Thomas Paulsen would be in that morning. His secretary said he would be. Hunter made no appointment.
The drive from the PAB took Hunter and Garcia just over an hour. Traffic was as heavy as any other weekday morning, and Hunter used the time to tell his partner the news Michelle had told him the night before. Garcia also couldn’t make any sense of it. He too believed that this killer would’ve wanted as much exposure as he could get, so why restrict his viewers to California only?
The only conclusion they could draw was that whatever the reason behind it was, it had to be something very personal to the killer.
PaulsenSystems’ headquarters was a grand L-shaped, mirrored-glass and dark granite-fronted building on the corner of Burbank and Topanga Canyon Boulevards. The main entrance was hidden away from the street, through the large private car park at the back. An elegant staircase, flanked by two colorful mini gardens, led up to the heavily air-conditioned and brightly lit entrance lobby. The air inside it was lightly perfumed with the subtle fragrance of sweet alyssum and a hint of wisteria.
‘Nice,’ Garcia said, as they stepped through the automatic sliding doors. ‘Makes a difference from the stale sweat scent you get when you enter the PAB.’
A circular reception counter occupied the center of the spacious lobby like an island. Behind it, the petite, Asian receptionist with long and sleek black hair smiled at both detectives. Her dark eyes shone like two polished marbles.
‘Welcome to PaulsenSystems,’ she said. Her voice was velvety and warm. ‘How can I help you today, gentlemen?’
‘Hello,’ Hunter replied. As much as he would like to, his smile didn’t carry the same level of enthusiasm as hers. ‘We were wondering if we could have a few moments of Mr. Paulsen’s time.’
The receptionist glanced down at her computer, where she would no doubt have a list of Thomas Paulsen’s appointments for the day, but Hunter quickly got her attention back to him.
‘We do not have an appointment,’ he clarified, displaying his credentials. ‘Nevertheless, this matter carries a certain urgency, and we would really appreciate if Mr. Paulsen could give us a few minutes this morning.’
The receptionist smiled again and nodded once, reaching for the phone behind the counter. She spoke quickly and discreetly. Hunter could tell that she wasn’t speaking directly with Thomas Paulsen but with a secretary or PA.
Seconds later, sitting behind his handcrafted oak desk, Thomas Paulsen answered the ringing phone and listened for a few seconds. A dry grin came to his lips, and he sat back, gently rocking in his high-backed leather chair for a moment.
‘Do I have anything scheduled for now?’ he asked.
‘You are actually free for the next hour, Mr. Paulsen,’ his PA confirmed. ‘Your next appointment is at 12:45.’
‘OK,’ Paulsen said, considering his thoughts. ‘You can tell the detectives that I’ll be able to spare a few minutes, but make them wait. I’ll see them when I’m good and ready. Oh, and Joanne . . .’
‘Yes, Mr. Paulsen?’
‘Let’s make them wait downstairs in the lobby, not in my anteroom. They might smell the place up.’
‘Of course, Mr. Paulsen.’
He put the phone
down, stood up and walked over to the large panoramic window that faced the Santa Monica Mountains. He felt like laughing out loud, but instead he allowed himself only a proud smile.
About time they came talk to me.
Eighty-Six
And wait they did . . .
Even the petite receptionist had started to look embarrassed after the first ten minutes or so. She went over to where Hunter and Garcia were sitting several times and offered them water, coffee, cookies, juice . . . When they said no to all, she suggested that she could send someone out for some donuts if they preferred. That made both detectives laugh.
Twenty-nine long and frustrating minutes after they had arrived at PaulsenSystems, the receptionist was finally told to allow both detectives to go up. She apologized yet again, and told them to take the elevator to the top floor. Someone would meet them there.
The elevator doors rolled back on a new, very elegantly furnished lobby. Three sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Persian rugs, surrounded by several modern American sculpture pieces. The walls were adorned with an impressive collection of original paintings.
Waiting for them just outside the elevator doors, and standing beneath a halogen spotlight, was Joanne, Thomas Paulsen’s PA. Her long red hair sparkled under the light. As Hunter and Garcia stepped out of the elevator, Joanne smiled.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said in the most professional of tones. ‘I’m Joanne Saunders, Mr. Paulsen’s personal assistant.’ She offered them her manicured hand. Both detectives shook it, introducing themselves. ‘If you’d like to follow me, please, Mr. Paulsen is waiting for you in his office.’
They crossed the anteroom and followed the PA down a softly lit hallway that terminated in a highly polished wood set of double doors. She knocked twice, paused for a second and pushed the doors open, which led them into a sprawling and luxuriously decorated corner office.
‘Mr. Paulsen,’ Joanne announced. ‘This is Detective Robert Hunter and Detective Carlos Garcia from the Los Angeles Police Department.’
