Nikki's Secret

by William Malmborg

  “Long enough cord?” she asked as he started to hook his laptop up to her modem.

  He smiled. “It’s the only cord I have. It’s what we used to use when the Roberts lived down here. We simply threaded it beneath the two doors and shared the cost of the connection.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the landlord said, but then there was a dispute or something about an adult video that had been ordered on the cable.”

  “There was. We have no idea who ordered it, but no one would ever admit to it. My guess was either one of the Roberts kids or the guy downstairs, because it wasn’t me.”

  “Really?” she asked, arms crossed. “The guy who used to make a living sending people to porn sites?”

  “Why would I buy it when I get all these videos sent to me for free? That’s the great thing about signing up to be an affiliate for those sites; you have access to all their promo videos.” He had also had his second laptop that he had used to download things from the free sites. The stuff had been full of viruses and spyware but when using a crap computer that had no personal information on it, he didn’t care.

  Kimberly shook her head and said, “I’ll never understand a guy’s fascination with porn.”

  “Mars and Venus,” Bill muttered.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. Men and women are just wired differently, that’s all. We’re stimulated visually, women aren’t. It’s as simple as that. You can go deeper into it and do all these studies, but in the end, that’s what it’s always going to boil down too.”

  Kimberly didn’t reply.

  “Okay.” He looked around for a place to sit with the laptop and elected to head to the couch, cord uncoiling behind him. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  Kimberly started to follow him, but then stopped and asked, “I’m going to grab a soda, you want anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he said. “Thanks though.”

  By the time Kimberly returned he had plugged a search string into Google, one that had generated quite a few hits. “Gotta love the internet age,” he said while selecting the first one. “Not too long ago we would have had to go to a library and look at microfiche copies of the newspaper, if they had even saved them, and flip through page after page looking for the right headline.”

  “Oh god, I had to do that for an anthropology class at C.O.D last year,” Kimberly said.

  “Really?” Bill asked, his eyes scanning over the text on the link he had pulled up.

  “Yeah. It was a pain in the ass, but, thankfully, didn’t take too long since it was just old anthropological studies we were looking at. I think the professor just wanted us to realize what it was like for him when he was a student because we were allowed to use other sources too. He just wanted one from the microfiche.”

  “I guess they do stuff like that a lot in college; you know, getting students familiar with all different types of research and classes. That’s one of things that always drove me crazy. All the general education crap. College should be for learning a career or trade and then you’re done. High school was the general education.” He paused and took a breath. “I could start a rant about that though, so I’ll stop right there.”

  “I know what you mean,” Kimberly said and sipped her soda. “All this time at school already just to get my Associates Degree and I still probably have two years to go if I want anything worthwhile for a career. It’s stupid.”

  “Yep,” Bill acknowledged. “Hey, here’s a picture of the wife that killed the husband.”

  “Oh?” She looked at the screen as he twisted it her way, her body getting close enough to his for him to feel a tingle. “Wow, she looks crazy.”

  “Seriously, right.” Looking at it was enough to cause a chill to creep down his spine.

  “Do you think she always looks like this or that the photographer chose the best of the bunch in what was taken?”

  “I’m sure they took some time in choosing a good one, but at the same time you can tell it goes deeper than just a facial expression. This lady is wacked.”

  “Does it say anything about her being in jail, or still being in jail that is?” She was still close to him, her eyes scanning the page.

  “It just says she is awaiting trial. My guess is she’s doing that waiting in jail given the brutality of the crime. Plus she is quoted as saying she wished she had killed the girl he was seeing too, so they wouldn’t want her out on the street.”

  “Whose identity is still unknown,” Kimberly read.

  Thank god, Bill thought.

  “Do you find it odd that the police never made a connection between you and Nikki?” Kimberly asked. Then, before he could answer, added, “I mean, I know they didn’t really have to ‘solve’ the crime, but you’d think they would still have looked into things a bit and tried to find out who Nikki was so that she could be a witness or something.”

  Bill thought about this and nodded, “Does seem a little strange. Maybe given the size of the town, which means a small police force, they just didn’t have the man power or time to pursue everything, especially if it was already solved.”

  “I guess.”

  Though the answer was his, it didn’t sit well in his system. He wouldn’t admit it, though, mostly because he didn’t really know all that much about police procedures.

  “Any others?” she asked.

  “Yeah, tons.” Bill backed out of this newspaper article and clicked on the next one. Everything within was pretty much the same.

  Once that one was read they moved onto the next one, and then the one after that as well. Each story was a near clone of the first one they had read, which, initially, confused Bill. He then realized each paper was an online affiliate of a larger paper and that the story had been ‘reprinted’ with each outlet.

  “Hey look at this,” Kimberly said and put a finger on the screen.

  Inside Bill winced at the fingerprint that would be left behind, but didn’t say anything. “The couple had been separated for six months,” he read. “That’s new.”

  “Yeah, and look at this.” She touched the screen again. “Daughter, who is currently a student at NIU, could not be reached for comment.” She looked at him. “You don’t think . . .”

  “. . . that it could have been her last night?” Bill finished.

  Kimberly nodded.

  A memory of pulling the girl to the ground filled his head. Though it was hard to say for sure based on that simple touch, it did seem possible that she would have been the right age and build for a typical female college student.

  “It could be,” he said. “Does it give a name anywhere?” He asked this as if she had the computer all to herself when really he was in the better position to scan the article.

  “Nope,” she said.

  He came to the same conclusion.

  Neither spoke for several seconds and then, without saying anything, Kimberly stood up and walked over to her computer.

  From where he sat, Bill watched as she double clicked the Internet icon and asked, “What are you looking for?”

  “I just want to check something.” On her screen he saw part of the NIU page, but could not tell what item she clicked on, or what the next page that opened was. “What was the last name of the guy that was killed?”

  “Um . . . Moore.”

  “With an ‘e’?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” She clicked something with her mouse and then, after waiting several seconds, said, “Tada.”

  Curious, Bill set the laptop aside and came over. What he saw was a listing of names, a header in red displaying the words LAST NAME, FIRST NAME, TELEPHONE NUMBER, EMAIL ALIAS, DIRECTORY TITLE, and DEPARTMENT. “What is this?”

  “The NIU Directory.” She touched her own screen. “Look, out of eight Moore last names three are female students.”

  “Emily, Katie, and Rachel,” Bill read.

  Kimberly repeated the names and then said, “It could be one of them.”

  “
Or none if they chose not to add their name to the directory.” He paused. “Unless you’re automatically added when you register? Did you ever add yourself to it?”

  “No.”

  “Put your name in and see what happens.”

  Kimberly did and sure enough her name appeared as a student.

  “Can you opt out of it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even think I’d be in here until I thought about checking the directory for her name.”

  “Wow, do all colleges have something like this?”

  “Yeah, and at some they used to be called Face Books.”

  “Wait, what, like the website?”

  “Yep. Didn’t you see the movie about it?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t gotten to that one yet.”

  “Oh, well, never mind. Most colleges have a directory of some sort. In fact, I wonder if . . .” she started typing a new web address in, but then stopped before she hit ENTER. “Never mind, we’ll just stick with this.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Oh, I was just going to see if I was still in the U of I directory, but . . .” she shrugged “. . . kind of pointless. We should just focus on these three names and see if one of them is the daughter.”

  “What made you change schools?” Bill asked.

  “Oh . . . um . . . I flunked out during my freshman year.”

  “Ah, I’ve heard it’s a tough school.”

  “It wasn’t that,” she said, voice barely audible. “It . . . it doesn’t matter. Any idea how we go about connecting any of these girls to what’s been going on?”

  “No,” he admitted. “That doesn’t give a living address, does it?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. We can try to Google each one of their names and see if it comes up in any newspaper articles about the murder.”

  “Think that’ll work?”

  “Don’t know, but it’s something. Open up a new window and do a search.”

  12

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of live in a dump,” Amy said as they pulled up outside of the house she lived in.

  “I don’t mind,” Mark said.

  “Last year I had a better place, but it required a co-signer and my parents weren’t willing to sign anything this time around, so I had to settle on this.”

  “Oh, that sucks.” Simple statements like this were all he could manage at the moment, his mind too preoccupied with what he was certain was about to occur.

  “Yep,” she said and then stepped out of the car.

  Mark pulled the keys and stepped around to join her, gooseflesh appearing as she took hold of his hand.

  “I can feel you trembling,” she said, a bit of amusement in her voice.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “No, it’s okay. I like it.”

  A smile was all he could muster.

  With that, she led him across the yard and up the front steps. More steps followed as they headed up to the second and then third floor. “I got what was once an attic,” she said.

  Mark looked around. “I like it. Very cozy.” This was stretching the truth quite a bit, but the last thing he wanted to do was tell her the place seemed off, especially considering the lack of personal belongings. From what he saw, aside from a laptop that sat atop an old child school desk, she hadn’t brought anything when moving in. But then maybe that was because she had had some kind of falling out with her parents? She had just mentioned them refusing to co-sign her apartment. Wait, wasn’t this her first year here? He thought she had said that at some point; something about being new in town and a first year student and --

  “What is it?” Amy asked.

  “What?”

  “It’s my place, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I wish it were nicer.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I just realized that . . . well, I feel kind of foolish, but I don’t have any, um, protection.”

  “And here I thought all men carried condoms because thanks to porn they learn fairly quickly that women almost always want to have sex in the most random situations.”

  “That is – “ he started to say, but found his throat caught as she playfully grabbed him by the groin.

  “No worries, I planned ahead,” she said and then, without missing a beat, unzipped his pants and pulled him free.

  The touch of her fingers to his bare flesh was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Pure bliss. Nothing but the sensations he was experiencing registered, and even those he was barely able to comprehend. And then she knelt down before him and took him in her mouth.

  13

  “There it is,” Kimberly said, satisfaction brewing. “Emily Moore was the daughter of Martin and Olivia Moore.”

  A simple search on the name Emily Moore had brought about the newspaper article they were looking for. “Olivia Moore. You know, that name just doesn’t sound like it belongs to a crazy person.”

  “Yeah, well, neither does Ted, or Dennis, or Jimmy. Names don’t make one psychotic,” Bill said. “The inability to sympathize with others and associate within the normal rules of society does.”

  “Unless it’s so bad that kids never stop picking on them and scar them for life and make them think of nothing but revenge.” She said this in an attempt to lighten the mood, but failed.

  “Okay, that might do it too,” he conceded. No amusement was present. “Now the question is, is the daughter Emily following in the mother’s footsteps and if so, why and how? If revenge is all she wanted then simply killing you at an opportune moment would have been the best option. Obviously, that hasn’t happened so it seems like something bigger is unfolding. Of course, this is assuming the daughter Emily is responsible for this. We really should try to lock that down.”

  “Did you learn anything about the email address you sent out?” Kimberly asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well, if it turns out to be linked to her, there is your ‘how’ as we have already established. Maybe the ‘why’ is her simply trying to point the finger at Nikki and show the world what she did with her parents? It isn’t like she actually has tried to harm me or anything?”

  “What about the Snapple bottle thrown at my car? The police said that could have killed me.”

  “Yeah, but was that her intent or did she just want you to stop following her? She might not even have thought about it much, just grabbed the bottle that she had been drinking from and threw it.”

  A simple nod was his only reply, one that morphed into an odd half shrug.

  “Of course,” she added. “I’m not justifying her actions or anything, and won’t let it all blow over if she is just simply trying to point a finger at me.”

  “Good,” Bill said. “Because this is serious stuff she’s doing. What if one of the guys she gave your address to turned out to be a psycho themselves and tried to rape you or worse?”

  Kimberly hadn’t really thought about that, nor did she want to now.

  “Actually,” he continued. “What if that was her hope all along, only the guys she’s contacting aren’t really as psychotic as they seem. If that’s the case this could get really bad as she grows more and more frustrated by the lack of results.”

  “God, that’s not a very comforting thought.”

  “It isn’t meant to be.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she muttered.

  Nothing else was said.

  Kimberly twisted back to her computer and attempted to find a picture of Emily Moore. Hundreds of different girls appeared when she clicked the IMAGE tab in the Google search. Nothing about any of them jumped out at her as being the Emily they were interested in, though she was able to eliminate some based on age, race and gender. This still left hundreds, the SHOW MORE RESULTS button at the bottom of the page always doubling the length of the page. Even so, she began to go through them, her mouse icon hovering over each picture one by one until the website location appeared in a small pop-up window that enlarged the photo a bit and
gave all the details beneath it. Most were from Facebook. Others carried site addresses or names that she was unfamiliar with and wouldn’t click on for fear of viruses. None seemed to be from newspapers, which is what she was looking for.

  “What’re you doing?” Bill asked.

  Kimberly nearly jumped, her ears having failed to catch him approaching from behind.

  “I Googled ‘Emily Moore’ and these are all the pictures from the web it found.” She hovered over one and sure enough a Facebook address appeared. “As you can imagine most are from Facebook.”

  “With a billion members -- or whatever it is they claim to have -- I’m not surprised they have a few Emily Moore’s in there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, did you try ‘Emily Moore’ and ‘DeKalb’ in the search?”

  “Oh, no, didn’t think of that.” Silently she wondered if the girl would have changed her Facebook location upon moving to the college town, but then thought about her own actions. She had changed it before she even had the key to her place, her excitement of moving from her parents place again, and her desire to start connecting with other students, having spurred her into action. And she wasn’t even a Facebook addict. Kyle had been, as was her mother and sister, but not her. She only went on four or five times a day to check things.

  A new idea appeared.

  Rather than search ‘Emily Moore’ and ‘DeKalb’ she typed in ‘Emily Moore’ with ‘NIU’ and hit ENTER. Unfortunately, the results were not helpful – or too helpful if one was looking for quantity.

  “Hmm,” came from Bill. Then, “Is there any type of Facebook page dedicated to NIU that would show the people who are networked into it?”

  “Um . . . I think there are several different types of NIU pages,” she said and brought one up. “Can’t really see who likes it though, just the friends I have that like it.”

  “Any Emily Moore’s in there?”

  Even though she doubted he was serious, she checked anyway. Stranger things had happened. The answer, however, was no.

  “There has got to be a way to use Facebook to find her,” Bill said, frustration evident in his voice. “With all the uproar over privacy issues and whatnot you’d think we would have been able to pull her up and know everything about her within a minute or two.”