by P. J. Tracy
He tasted the braised steak and garlic potatoes Lisa Timmersman had made for his lunch just today; he felt her arms around his waist at his daughter's funeral over a year ago; and in a very strange way, he saw things coming together to make a destiny he never would have imagined.
Everyone was back around the table in the Monkeewrench office, all of them leaning toward the speaker phone, listening hard, faces brittle and swept back like astronauts in a centrifuge.
Turn off the siren, Frank. He'll know you're coming and he'll bolt.
I love you, Mary, but fuck you. I want him to hear the siren. I want him to bolt. I want Lisa to live.
Sometimes there was no explanation for the way God worked in this world. Lisa Timmersman didn't understand why a nice young man with a really nice face who liked her meatloaf would suddenly grab her by the neck and slap a piece of gray sticky tape over her mouth; or why he'd tie her hands and ankles with those plastic things that Best Buy used to hold their bags together; and she didn't understand why anyone would carry around a knife that big.
'I'm afraid this might be very painful,' the young man said with a small smile, and that's when Lisa began to buck her way across the linoleum floor like an inchworm trying to outrun a snake. He laughed at that, and for the first time, tears squirted out of her eyes.
They were all back around the big table again, leaning toward the speakerphone, staring at it as if their eyes would help them hear something other than the deputy's siren. That's all there had been for the past several minutes; the constant wailing of that siren and occasionally in the background, a steady, whispered mumbling, probably coming from Mary.
What's she saying?' Annie asked.
John Smith, who had known his way around a church a million years ago, folded his hands together as if he were in one now. 'She's praying'
Mary, I'm there!
They all jumped at Deputy Frank's sudden shout.
I see Lisa's car and a red Ford F-i5o parked around the side, can't read the plate - Jesus God there he goes!
In Minneapolis, they heard the siren, still wailing, the release of a seat belt, a car door flung open, and then there was Frank's voice, screaming.
Stop! Stop or I'll shoot!
The roar of an engine, the sound of tires screeching on asphalt, and then the gunfire. There were nine shots, and then Mary yelling into the radio.
Frank? FRANK!
There wasn't a fraction of a second small enough to measure the time it took for Deputy Frank Goebel to make his choice. Chase the bad guy as he sped out of the parking lot and onto the back roads, or go inside and see to Lisa. No choice at all really. No options.
He found her tied to one of the stools at the counter, clothesline around her neck, pulling her head back, blood seeping from the duct tape across her mouth. One of her eyelids was swollen shut, but the other eye opened when he bent over her and said her name. 'Hey, Lisa.' He tried not to hurt her when he pulled the duct tape from her lips, apologized because he knew it was painful, and then he took his knife to the plastic and rope that bound her, screw whatever evidence he was destroying, and called into his shoulder unit for an ambulance.
'Hi, Mr. Goebel.'
'Hi, Lisa.'
'He didn't cut me. He had a big knife and he said it was going to hurt and then he heard the siren and ran away.' Blood was coming out of her mouth, garbling her voice.
Frank scowled hard and kept working at the ropes around her, trying not to look at her ruined face, trying not to remember that he'd been a second too late - just a second - to save his daughter from bleeding out when a drunk driver had crossed the freeway median and sent a sliver of windshield through her jugular. 'I'm glad, Lisa. Be still now.'
* * *
Chapter Twenty
Magozzi still hadn't gotten used to walking into his own house through the front door. Nothing looked right, and he doubted very much that it ever would again. He'd learned that there were a couple of life-changing mistakes it was almost impossible to undo: one was marrying the wrong person; another was - and God help any man who tried it - hiring a decorator.
He stood at the archway to his living room, knowing absolutely that he was not supposed to set foot on that stupid Oriental rug without taking his shoes off. Why the hell would anyone slap down an area rug on top of wall- to-wall carpet? There was no sense to that at all, and some very real dangers. His socks always tangled in the silly fringe around the edges, and you could see every misstep he'd made in shoes on the cream border.
Shoes, or not shoes. Funny how he could make rational snap judgments at a river crime scene, looking at a bloated body, yet found himself paralyzed at the entrance of his own living room.
His old battered recliner was gone; the big-screen TV was hidden behind the massive doors of a piece of furniture he still couldn't pronounce, and funny-colored pillows in weird shapes were scattered all over the place.
When the decorator had finished two months ago, there had been a very specific place for each pillow; something to do with contrasting colors and textures, the cohesiveness of the room design - some bullshit like that. The pillows still pissed him off. It took several to cushion his head when he crashed on the sofa that was a foot too short for his six-plus feet, and they kept sliding off the new leather massage recliner he'd insisted on buying, even when the decorator made a prune face. Someday, when he was retired from the force, he was going to hunt down that woman and slap her silly with those pillows.
The phone rang while his second frozen dinner was still in the microwave. He never looked at the picture on the box when he bought them, never looked before he nuked them, but this one smelled really weird. 'Magozzi here…'
Grace never bothered with hellos before starting a phone conversation, especially if she was tired or stressed, and tonight she sounded both. 'Wisconsin saved the girl, the perp got away. I don't know where you got your information about the location of that diner, but make sure you tell the source they saved a life. Apparently the guy heard the siren coming and bolted before he could do some real damage. He pulled out of the parking lot just as the deputy was pulling in.'
'How is the girl?'
'Pretty banged up, pretty terrified, but she's talking. He tied her up and came at her with a knife, Magozzi, just like the one in Medford last night.'
Magozzi thought about that for a minute. 'Oregon's a long way from Wisconsin.'
'If he flew, it's possible, and, God love airports, they have cameras all over the place. The girl gave a pretty good description; they've got a sketch artist with her now, hoping for some distinguishing characteristics they can start comparing to security footage.'
"Witness sketches suck, Grace, you know that. They all look like celebrities. Did the deputy get a tag on whatever the perp was driving?'
'Better than that. He put nine bullets into it. They found it at a freeway wayside four miles away. Stolen, of course. They're guessing he had his own vehicle parked there and switched them out. He could be anywhere by now.'
'Cameras at the wayside? And how about at the diner?'
'Nothing at the wayside, and get this: he backed into the door at the diner so the camera couldn't pick up his face.'
'Smart. Any more news out of Medford?'
'No. The woman's still unconscious, and the cops and Feds are still processing. Prelim reports by tomorrow morning, they think, but still no leads.'
The microwave pinged and Magozzi popped open the door, releasing an unidentifiable miasma that smelled lethal. He peeled back the film to reveal an unappetizing brown mash.
'Listen, Magozzi, I'm dead on my feet. Anything else you need before I collapse?'
'Yeah. Do you know what Indian food smells like?'
'Doesn't matter what it smells like. It's good for you. Eat it.'
After he hung up, he examined the cardboard box that had contained his latest gift to the microwave, then poked a fork into the mushy brown stuff. It wouldn't win any beauty contests, but surprisingly, it was pre
tty damn good. Anant would be pleased.
Between mouthfuls, he picked up the phone and dialed Gino.
'This better be good, Leo, because you just woke me out of a sound sleep,' he grumbled.
'How are you already asleep? You just got home.' 'I was already asleep before I walked in the door. What's up?'
Magozzi relayed his conversation with Grace, which seemed to perk up his partner considerably.
'Hell, that's terrific news. Way to go, Judge. Send him a fruit basket.'
'I'll do one better than that - I'm going to call him right now.'
'Whoa. You found religion in the last half hour? Since when are you into validating drunken sots?'
'Since never. But he saved a life, unwittingly or not.' 'I think the unwittingly part means something, Leo.' 'Whatever.'
'Don't trip over your skirt on the way to bed, buddy.' 'Screw you, Gino. Go to sleep.'
'I hear, and I obey.' Gino hung up instantly, which meant Angela had put her hand on him, and maybe exhaled against his skin, and in that moment, Magozzi hated him.
Judge Jim was sitting in his office, reflecting on the history of technology. Invariably, all the powerful technological tools that were invented for the good of mankind ultimately fell into hands that turned them toward evil. Dr. Richard
Gatling invented his rapid-fire weapon because he thought it would end war. The A-bomb was invented for the same reason, and now every crazy fucker had one. The people behind weapons of destruction should have spent less time in their labs and more time on the streets, observing humanity. And now, the Web…
He jumped when his phone rang and he snatched the receiver when he saw Magozzi's name on the caller ID. 'Tell me you're calling with good news, Detective.'
'I am, Judge. Law enforcement on the scene at the Wisconsin diner wanted me to let you know you saved a life.' He heard the judge take a breath, then blow it out. "You were dead-on with the location. Thanks to your info, the cops got there before the perp could do serious damage.'
Magozzi rubbed at his tired eyes while he waited for the expected thank-you-for-the-call, but all he got was silence. After five seconds of that, he started to get pissed. Just picking up the phone had been a courtesy; one the judge obviously didn't deserve.
Finally, 'And was the victim a woman, Detective Magozzi?'
'Of course it was a woman. Pink polyester, remember? What did you think? That it was a gay golfer?' Bizarrely, he heard the definitive sound of liquid being poured into a glass, and then the unmistakable noise of gulping. Jeez. What an asshole. Did the old bastard actually think Magozzi was going to stand here and listen to him drink himself to death? 'Listen, Judge…'
'Thank you for calling, Detective.' And then an abrupt disconnect.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-one
Tommy Espinoza connected with the world on the Internet. He did his shopping, he watched television programs, he got his news, and occasionally found a date. Nothing he did in his life originated anywhere else. He didn't really understand people who lived any other way, and when Magozzi and Gino stopped in his office, he assumed that they, like he, knew everything that had appeared online.
'You guys are famous,' he said when they crowded into his space.
'Oh yeah?' Gino was rummaging through the offerings on the snack table, all ordered online, delivered right to his door.
'Totally. You saw the morning shows, right?'
'Nah,' Gino said around a rippled potato chip. 'Angela won't let me watch the morning news since my last physical. Anything pops, I gotta go back on the blood-pressure meds, and let me tell you how those things suck.'
'Jeez, Gino, go to the gym, eat lettuce.'
'I'd rather die. So why are we famous?'
'Well, not exactly you guys, but MPD and Monkeewrench. The Wisconsin thing last night. The waitress is doing interviews all over the place from her hospital bed. It's been streaming all morning. Pull up a couple chairs and I'll show you some footage.'
A young field reporter stood next to a satellite van from a Milwaukee TV station, talking earnestly into a microphone while the sun rose over the alfalfa field behind him and a cow lowed in the background. 'This is rural Wisconsin. Farm country.'
Gino rolled his eyes. 'Jeez, buddy, what was your first clue? The cow? The hayfield?'
Tommy stabbed pause and glared at Gino. "You want to hear this or not?'
'Probably not. It's just another asshole cub reporter trying to hit the anchor desk on the back of somebody else's misfortune. Fifty bucks the kid asks her how she felt when the guy tied her up and came at her with a knife. Duh.'
Magozzi sighed and circled his forefinger at Tommy.
'Forty miles from the closest town of any size,' the newscaster continued, 'over a hundred miles from any of the larger cities that foster crime. According to the locals, nothing bad ever happens here, but all that changed last night.' As he spoke, the camera panned left to show a long shot of the Litde Steer Diner. 'Twenty-year-old Lisa Timmersman was alone in this diner last night, just about to close up when a last customer came in and viciously attacked her. She was beaten, duct tape was placed over her mouth, hands and legs tied to one of the counter stools. "I'm afraid this is going to be very painful," her attacker said as he approached her with a large knife.'
The film cut to Lisa in a hospital bed. One side of her face was black and blue, the eye swollen shut, black stitches cutting from her cheek to her lips. Tears welled as she recalled her ordeal.
'He wanted to kill me. I don't know why. I didn't even know him. And then he heard Mr. Goebel's siren. Deputy Goebel, you know? And he ran away. Mr. Goebel saved my life. He's a hero. A real hero.'
Cut to film that was presumably Deputy Goebel, walking away from the camera, holding up a hand to fend them off, saying, 'No comment.'
'Good cop,' Gino muttered.
'But Deputy Goebel wasn't the only hero in this near- tragedy,' the newscaster went on. 'A confidential source has told WKAL Milwaukee News that Monkeewrench, a computer company operating out of Minneapolis, was instrumental in saving Lisa Timmersman's life. They were the ones, along with an agent of the FBI, that notified the local sheriff that there would be a murder attempt at the Litde Steer last night. How did they know this was going to happen? How did they know someone was planning to kill Lisa Timmersman? What is the FBI's involvement? These are questions that have yet to be answered, but WKAL is investigating. In the meantime, the police are asking for your help identifying Lisa's attacker, who is still at large. If you recognize the man in this sketch, please call the tipline number at the bottom of the screen.'
Tommy navigated away from the news report. There's a lot more in this report - interviews with Lisa's family and friends, small-town stuff like that - but it gets worse. By the time the Today show hit the air they had Monkeewrench's history and, amazingly, the whole story about the Internet murders, the FBI connection, and Monkeewrench finding the code that gave them advance warning of murders to come.'
'That sucks,' Gino was shaking his head. 'If we don't already have copycats, we'll probably get some now.'
'Trust me, we already have copycats by the truckload… oh, come on, Gino, shove your eyes back in their sockets. I didn't mean copycat killers - so far we haven't hit on any of those. But thanks to the media, the format of the code is all over the friggin' TV, in every newspaper, and the goddamned Web is on fire. So now we've got a bumper crop of assholes who know to capitalize letters one, three, six, and nine to get a little attention. I just screened over two hundred new pre-posts in the last hour, and that's just Minneapolis. Look at this one. "CiTy oF laKes, Bob banged Betty in the Boy's Bathroom." Jesus. It's a nightmare. We didn't know what was real and what was just a prank before, when this story was under wraps, but now we're getting buried. And to give you an indication of how bad it really is, Federal Cyber Crimes already has a new task force set up, just to deal with this, and since when did the government have a twenty-four-hour turn-around time on getting
anything done?'
'What are they doing about it?' Magozzi asked. 'What can they do?'
Tommy shrugged. 'Most of them are stupid, like "Bob banged Betty," but the locals have busted a few cyber- bully kids who think it's funny to put up pre-posts about murdering whoever stole their milk money in the lunch line. But what are you going to do? Throw a thirteen-year-old kid in the pen for making terroristic threats?'
'Hell, yes!' Gino snapped. 'Christ, are there any parents out there anymore, or is it the hot new trend to let wolves and the Web raise your kids? If one of my spawn did something like that, I'd hog-tie 'em, smear 'em with honey, and throw 'em on a fire ant hill.'
'You would not,' Magozzi said.
'Well, maybe not my kids, but one of my neighbors' kids did that…'
'It's not just kids,' Tommy said. 'A few other nutters have been busted. Point is, the copycats aren't in the same league technology-wise as our murderer… or murderers. They're not using anonymity software, and they're not running through foreign servers, so it's a no-brainer to trace them. But the really bad guys are seriously dialed-in.'
'What I'd like to know is how the media got all this information,' Magozzi said.
Tommy shrugged. Who were the insiders on all of this shit, besides Monkeewrench, the Feds, and us? I'm thinking it's gotta be one of the hackers the FBI brought in, long on info and short on cash. I mean, the Feds have been using hackers forever, and most of them are straight-up dope when they get the call, either because there's money involved, or a commuted sentence. But it's always dicey when you get criminals to help you catch other criminals. So, you guys want to see more coverage, or do you want to see what I dug up on that list of vies you gave me yesterday?'
Gino asked, 'Anything in there we're going to like?'
'Well, it's not exactly an earthquake, but there are a couple of things that are kind of interesting'
Magozzi looked at Tommy. 'Shoot.'
