The Closer

by Donn Cortez

  GOURMET: Go ahead.

  ROAD RAGE: Precisely. The head being the

  Closer’s—and you being where it should go.

  GOURMET: What do you want for it?

  ROAD RAGE: Seven body locations.

  GOURMET: Normally I would bargain. But the head of the Closer is worth at least that much—not to mention the risks you took in getting it. Seven bodies is an agreeable price. What storage method are you using?

  ROAD RAGE: Refrigeration, but not freezing. It would be best if I sent it soon, I think.

  GOURMET: Indeed. What method did you have in mind?

  ROAD RAGE: Courier would be fastest. You would have to arrange a delivery point, of course.

  GOURMET: Yes. That shouldn’t be difficult.

  DJINN-X: If I might make a suggestion, guys? Use the method I do for the hands. Mail it to a P.O. box, and make sure the mailbox is in the downtown of a major city. Have a bike courier pick it up at rush hour— nobody can track those fuckers through heavy downtown traffic. Specify when the package gets picked up and when it has to be delivered, so he’ll be in a hurry. Pick a big office building with underground parking for the drop, and wait for the courier in the lobby. Get on the elevator with him and accept the delivery. Get off the elevator on a different floor, take another down to the parking lot, and leave. Look out for surveillance devices— fucking cameras are everywhere now, including elevators. If you can, change your appearance in a washroom right after the drop.

  GOURMET: I’ll consider your ideas and post instructions within six hours. My final precautions will be my own.

  ROAD RAGE: Of course.

  Methodology of Pursuit and Capture

  The most important aspect of hunting intelligent prey is knowledge of your subject. Observe his or her behavior over an extended period of time. Familiarize yourself with their habits, routines, likes, and dislikes. Keeping a journal is extremely helpful, but a code should be used in case of discovery. I recommend the birdwatching technique, substituting ornithology terms for key words: “nest” for apartment, “feeding ground” for restaurant, “mating ritual” for dating behavior, etcetera. This also provides a convenient excuse for the use of binoculars, cameras, and surveillance in general.

  Trash and recycling bins are also a gold mine of information on your subject. Credit card, social insurance and even driver’s license numbers can be obtained this way, as well as details like dietary and shopping habits.

  To truly understand your subject, two methods are invaluable: firsthand observation of the subject in a social setting, and an analysis of their living space. Both of these are not without risk, but patience, planning, and caution will always produce results.

  Beyond these broad strokes, each subject is different. I vary my technique accordingly, and therefore cannot list any generalized “hunting tips.” Instead, I offer a specific case study, that may or may not be useful to the reader.

  Case Study 32: Ulysses

  “Ulysses” is a fifty-one-year-old university professor. He holds degrees in English Literature and Philosophy. He is married, with two grown children. He is president of his local Mensa chapter, with a listed IQ of 141. He has a fondness for Rocky Road ice cream.

  This much was determined by casual observation. More detailed investigation reveals that Ulysses also has a fascination with medieval armor, and in fact owns several authentic pieces.

  This suggested a possible approach. After doing some research, I constructed a full-face helmet (or “helm”) from sheet metal, and contacted the professor via email. Posing as an English major and fan of Renaissance fairs, I asked him if he would evaluate my work for its historical accuracy, and offered him a “knighthood” in a historical-recreation organization I claimed to belong to.

  Despite the fact that I was a complete stranger, his vanity wouldn’t let him refuse. He agreed to meet me on campus, in a spot I chose for its seclusion.

  When we met, it took little encouragement for him to try the helm on. I had lined the headpiece with heavy plastic, with a folded hem around the rim of the opening. Threaded through the hem was a long, industrial-strength band of plastic, sometimes called a “zap-strap.” The tail end of the band is fed through a hole at the head, forming a loop. A one-way set of teeth embedded into the band allows it to be tightened but not loosened. This is essentially the same technology used by the police for their “disposable” handcuffs.

  Once he was wearing the helm, it was easy to pull on the band, tightening it around his neck. The helm itself kept him from tearing a hole in the plastic manually. Blinded, and with his air supply cut off, it was a simple matter to subdue him. Death occurred within minutes through lack of oxygen.

  I found this method to be particularily satisfying, as it combined aspects of both old and new technology.

  Jack and Nikki drove from the courier office straight to the airport. Jack wanted to be on the ground in Nevada and ready by the time the head itself arrived the next day.

  He’d embedded a GPS tracking unit inside the skull. The Gourmet’s inclinations meant he’d probably discover the unit almost immediately, so they’d have to move fast.

  It was too dangerous to try to bring firearms with them, but Jack thought the stun gun would be all right if they put it in with their regular baggage. He kept the laptop and the GPS tracker with him.

  Nikki hardly spoke to him during the flight.

  They flew into Reno, rented a car and a motel room. Jack set up the laptop. The equipment that hosted the Stalking Ground was still back in Portland, but he could access it easily from almost anywhere.

  He logged on while Nikki went out to pick up some supplies, intending to study the Gourmet’s postings.

  The Patron was waiting to talk to him.

  PATRON: And how is your plan to bag the Gourmet coming along?

  CLOSER: I’m not coming after him. I’m coming after you.

  PATRON: I don’t think you are. Would you like to know why?

  CLOSER: All right.

  PATRON: It doesn’t fit your arc. Serial killers escalate, as I’m sure you’re aware. The Gourmet, while dangerous, isn’t really on my level. You’re going to have to eliminate him first, because you’re saving your greatest challenge for last.

  CLOSER: You’re certainly impressed with yourself. Sadly, my opinion of you isn’t nearly as high.

  PATRON: Perhaps I can raise it. How’s the weather in Nevada?

  Jack stopped. He stared at the screen for a moment.

  CLOSER: Sunny, I assume. Why don’t you check the Weather Channel?

  PATRON: Do you know how easy it would be for me to alert the Gourmet? You must have realized an epicurean of his tastes would be a regular visitor to other websites. Here are the top candidates:

  A list of twenty names scrolled down, with titles ranging from Le Meilleur Cervelle to Bizarre Recipes.

  PATRON: A properly worded posting on any of these would get his attention. Something like this, perhaps:

  FAUX CLOSER BRAINS

  A Recipe for Disaster

  Take 1 Gullible Gourmet

  Add 1 Head of Irresistible Bait

  Mix with a dash of Subterfuge

  Finish with Murder

  Serves the General Public.

  PATRON: What do you think?

  Jack’s mouth was dry. “Fuck,” he said softly.

  CLOSER: I think you haven’t posted that message on any of those sites. If you had, you’d have told me to go look for myself.

  PATRON: Which would have wasted your valuable time and mine. Very good. But here’s the far more important question, Closer: why haven’t I?

  CLOSER: I don’t know.

  PATRON: It’s quite simple. The Gourmet doesn’t exist. Jack frowned. “What?” he muttered.

  CLOSER: I don’t follow.

  PATRON: But you do, Closer. You’re following in my footsteps. Do you think you’re the only killer with more than one online persona?

  CLOSER: You’re the Gourmet?
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  GOURMET: That’s right, Closer. Come and get me.

  It’s not true, Jack thought.

  But it could be.

  It made sense. Another persona to deflect blame onto, another voice added to yours on the Stalking Ground. An insurance policy. All it would take is another dead hooker’s hand to establish your credibility.

  But why tell him? Arrogance? I know you’re coming and I don’t care. Or fear? I’m ready for you so you better stay away.

  Neither made sense. The Patron was too smart to give away such an advantage, and too confident to try scare tactics. More importantly, he knew the Closer would never give up.

  He checked the websites the Patron had listed—no message to the Gourmet. He did a search for key phrases like brain recipes and pulled up a dozen more sites; nothing on them, either.

  All he’d done was waste time.

  Maybe that was the point. Not to stop him—just to make him hesitate. To make things harder.

  Was the Patron’s claim true? No way to tell. But Jack knew one thing for sure.

  It was a challenge.

  “Hey,” Nikki said. “I got it.”

  She closed the motel room door, then pulled a pistol out of one pocket of her overcoat, two boxes of ammo out of the other. The gun was a blocky automatic, black with a brown grip. “Cost me five hundred and a blow job—old Mob guy I used to do. They may not run this town anymore, but they’re still around.” She tossed it on the bed Jack lay on, his hands behind his head.

  He reached over, picked up the weapon. Examined it carefully. “Good. Hand me those bullets.”

  She brought over a box, gave it to him. “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing some thinking… Jack, what are you gonna do after we take down the Patron?” Nikki sat down on the edge of the other bed.

  Jack didn’t answer.

  “Jack?” Nikki said gently. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Keep going.” He opened the box of ammunition.

  “Yeah? For how long?”

  “Until I can’t,” Jack said. “You know that.”

  “I know. We made a pact, right? We keep going as long as we can. But Jack—I’m getting a little worried.”

  “About what?” He started loading bullets into the magazine. Clicking them into place one by one, feeling the push of the spring against his fingers.

  “About everything you’re not talking about.”

  “It’s…” Jack closed his eyes. “It’s not a problem.”

  “Look, Jack, I don’t know how to say this, but—I don’t know if you want to catch the Patron.”

  Jack opened his eyes and turned his head. “What?”

  “He’s the reason you’re doing all this, Jack. He’s what made you. What’s gonna happen when you finally take him out?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said quietly.

  “Maybe he should be the last, Jack. Maybe after him, it wouldn’t be smart to keep going.”

  “This isn’t about revenge, Nikki. You know that.”

  “No. It’s about closure. And when we get the Patron, you’ll have yours.”

  “And what about you, Nikki? What about all your friends on the street, and their families? What about their closure?” He slammed the full magazine into the pistol.

  She stood up, walked over to the small table and poured a shot of vodka into a water glass. “We can’t help those people if we’re dead.”

  “We have to try. I have to try.”

  She slammed her drink down on the table and turned. “Goddammit, this isn’t about me quitting. This is about you looking for a way to kill yourself.”

  He met her eyes levelly. “I see.”

  She laughed once and picked up her drink. “Sure. You’re the Closer, you’re cool and in control. You’re going to capture and question the fucker who murdered your family and left their corpses for you to find, and it’s not going to affect you a bit. Are you out of your fucking mind?” She was yelling now, waving the glass around—a drop of vodka splashed against Jack’s cheek, making him flinch. “No, of course not! You’re too fucking focused for that. Well, maybe it’s time the Closer asked himself some questions.”

  He got up off the bed. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “What’s going to happen when you have the Patron in that chair, Jack?” she demanded. “What’s it going to do to you when he describes exactly what he did to your parents? To your wife? To your kid?”

  Jack went to the closet and took his jacket off a hanger. He slipped the gun into his pocket. “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  She grabbed his arm, forced him to turn and look at her. “I count on you, Jack,” she said. “I put my life in your fucking hands every night. I never felt unsafe before, you know that? Never.”

  “Maybe you should have,” Jack said.

  He pulled away from her arm, opened the door and left.

  INTERLUDE

  Dear Electra:

  Today I got a huge surprise.

  It turns out… I’m an alien! My real parents are from Alpha Centauri, and they had me raised here to protect me from an evil Galactic Empire! So, I’m not even related to Uncle Rick—technically, I’m not related to anyone on the planet!

  Not buying that one, huh?

  Okay, so I’m not an alien. But I could be adopted, right? That’s possible. It would even explain why I feel like I don’t fit in—maybe it even explains why I like Uncle Rick so much in the first place.

  It would be weird to find that out, though. Kind of like losing your whole family all at once. And then you’d have to do the looking-for-your-real-family thing, which would be cool but scary—you know, you hope they’ll turn out to be rich and famous, but you’re afraid they’ll be a bunch of psychopathic hillbillies. And if they were, you’d start to wonder how that was going to affect you—were you going to go crazy at some point? Start drinking moonshine and shooting at squirrels?

  Or maybe I’m already crazy. Do crazy people know they’re crazy? I asked Jessica at school and she said that if you think you’re crazy, it proves you’re not. That sounded pretty dumb to me, but I didn’t tell her that.

  I think if you’re completely insane, you probably wouldn’t even understand the question. If you’re just a little bit nuts, it’s like having the beginnings of a cold—you know it’s there, but you can try to fight it off. Of course, with a cold you can take Vitamin C and drink lots of fluids and stay in bed—what do you do if you start losing your mind? And with a cold, all you have to worry about is being sick for a week—if you go insane, anything could happen. You could go to school wearing nothing but a bucket on your head. You could eat bugs. You could grab a butcher knife and kill your best friend.

  And right at the start, there would be a point where you knew something bad was happening to you, but you wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  Let’s change the subject, okay, Electra? (She said to her imaginary electronic friend.)

  Back to the surprise. The reason I was thinking about the whole adoption thing is that it’s my birthday. Fifteen, thanks for asking. I didn’t have a big party or anything, just a few friends came over and we hung out. My mom gave me an ice cream cake she got at Dairy Queen, and I got a new mountain bike, which was pretty cool.

  I was kind of bummed that Uncle Rick wasn’t there, though. He told me he was going to come for supper, and I have to admit I was pretty disappointed when he didn’t show.

  Then at around seven, the doorbell rang. My dad told me I should get it.

  And when I opened the door, Uncle Rick was there with my present.

  It was a puppy, Electra. The cutest, wiggliest, lickingest puppy you ever saw, with a big red bow around his neck. Uncle Rick just grinned, handed him to me and said, “Happy Birthday.”

  “Oh!” I said. “But, but—” and then Rufus was licking my face. I knew his name was Rufus right away—don’t ask me how.

  “Don’t worry, I talked it over with your mom and dad,” Uncle Rick said. “They
think you’re old enough to handle the responsibility.”

  Okay, this is kind of embarrassing, Electra, but I started crying. I’d wanted a dog for so long, you know? And I didn’t think I’d ever get one.

  “Uh, just one thing,” Uncle Rick whispered. “Your parents think he’s a cocker spaniel/beagle mix—actually, he’s a Rottweiler/shepherd.” Uncle Rick knows I like big dogs.

  “Aren’t they going to find out?” I whispered back.

  “Sure, once he gets older—but by then he’ll be part of the family.”

  So I spent the evening playing with Rufus and cleaning up dog pee and hanging out with Uncle Rick, and it was probably my best birthday ever. And after Uncle Rick had left, I asked my mom how he’d convinced her to let me have a dog—I’d been trying since I was eight.

  “He reminded me what it was like to be a teenager,” my mom said. “How sometimes the loneliness is the worst thing. How a little bit of unconditional love from something that’s yours can make a big, big difference.” She’d had a few glasses of wine, and got a little teary-eyed, and that set me off, and I gave her a big, drippy hug and ran up to my room with Rufus. And now I’m talking to you.

  Happy birthday to me, Electra.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jack walked through downtown Reno.

  He felt like a modern-day Alice, having stepped through a TV screen instead of a mirror. Everything was the colorful brightness of television, illuminated by rippling street signs a hundred feet high. People packed the sidewalks, laughing and drinking and smoking, like extras waiting for the next scene.

  He moved through them silently, studying faces, trying to figure out which ones were predators, which ones prey. Wondering if it mattered.

  He didn’t know why he hadn’t told Nikki about the Patron’s claim of being the Gourmet. He should have—if nothing else, it would have brought her on board, made her see that the Gourmet had to be next.