by Chris Mooney
‘Excuse me, Chief,’ Williams said, ‘but I need to borrow Dr McCormick here for a minute.’
Robinson gave a short, curt nod. Lancaster tracked Williams as he walked all the way to the front of the room. As Williams held the door open for her, the chief started to explain how Red Hill and the deputy sheriff’s people were going to start working in shifts at Pine Hill Cemetery. Almost all of the Red Hill Ripper’s previous victims were buried there. It was Hoder’s belief that the killer would visit the graves to relive the murders.
Not if he recorded them, Darby thought as she stepped out into the hall. It was surprisingly quiet for a police station: the only sound was that of a janitor wringing out his mop in a bucket.
Then she remembered the text message that had come through. She retrieved her iPhone as the door swung shut behind Williams.
‘What is it with you and Lancaster?’ Darby asked. ‘He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.’
‘May I see your phone? I’m having problems getting a signal on mine.’
Darby caught the slight hitch in his voice, and his eyes seemed wired. He looked like he was going to snatch the phone from her hand.
She stepped away and hit the button on her phone; the screen came to life.
‘Give it to me,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Williams looked alarmed. Sick. But Darby didn’t hand over the phone. She swiped her thumb across the screen and felt her stomach drop.
22
Darby had received two text messages. Neither contained any words: there was just a thumbnail picture in each. She tapped the first photo and when it enlarged she broke into a cold and greasy sweat.
The photo had been taken through her window. It showed her standing inside her hotel room, naked and facing the camera, her back arched and her hands frozen behind her head; she’d been in the process of tying back her damp hair when the camera’s shutter had snapped shut.
The second photo showed her standing in the low-rise underwear that hugged her hips.
She looked up at Williams, saw the expression on his face and knew he had been sent the same photos. His face blurred and she felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.
Inside the squad room she could hear Police Chief Robinson speaking in low, hushed tones. When Darby went to look through the door’s glass partition, Williams darted in front of her and blocked her view.
It didn’t matter. The glimpse she had caught was enough.
Darby walked away and, finding her legs unsteady, stopped and placed a palm flat against the side of the Coke machine.
Then Williams was standing next to her. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his voice sounding far away, as though he were speaking to her from down the end of a long tunnel. ‘I’m going to go back in there and make sure every one of those photos is deleted.’
But you can’t delete what just happened, Darby thought. You can’t delete what they just saw.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes and, inhaling deeply, replayed what she had seen inside the squad room before Williams had blocked her view, how the men were standing together, each one looking at his cell. One stared lasciviously at his screen while another puckered his lips and arched his eyebrows and whistled approvingly at her nakedness.
‘I don’t know how the bastard got our numbers,’ Williams said. ‘But I promise you we’ll find out. I’ll get a court order and within an hour we’ll have traced the cell.’
‘Burner.’
‘What?’
‘Burner. Disposable cell.’ Her voice sounded foreign in her ears, as though someone else were speaking. ‘You can buy ’em for next to nothing in practically any convenience store. That’s why anyone looking to avoid a wiretap uses them. He’s probably already chucked it.’ It was a dead end and Williams knew it.
‘Let’s go to my office. It’s right down the hall. You want some water? A Coke?’
Screw this. Darby brushed past him, her heels clicking across the floor.
Williams caught up with her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Going to see who else got these pictures.’
‘I’ll do it.’
Darby stopped walking. ‘What do you want me to do, Ray, go and hide in your office? Hang my head in shame because this asshole sent out some tit shots of me? Screw that.’ She pushed open the door and entered the squad room.
I still own the first weapon I ever purchased: a Springfield bolt-action rifle. It had an M84 telegraphic sight and fired .30–06 shells from a clip-loaded, five-round magazine feed. The Springfield was one of America’s finest firearms. It became the standard infantry rifle during World War II and, because of its accuracy and reliability, was used by snipers during the Korean and Vietnam wars.
There’s a range I sometimes go to just outside of Denver, one that offers paper targets printed with human silhouettes. Mostly I practise near my home. Twice a month, usually on a Sunday afternoon, I pack a lunch and a thermos of black coffee and head deep into the woods behind my house to keep up my long-distance shooting skills. I’ve conducted this monthly ritual for as long as I can remember. The reason is both simple and practical: no matter how meticulous and prudent I am with my planning and execution, there’s always the risk of my secret life being discovered.
Every decision we make involves managing consequences. I have thought long and hard about how I want to depart this world, the mark I want to leave, and it doesn’t involve my being handcuffed and escorted to a waiting patrol car. History doesn’t remember compliance and co-operation. It records blood. When the police come for me, I’ll turn myself into Colorado’s version of Charles Whitman, the former Marine and engineering student who, after stabbing his mother and wife to death in their sleep, entered the Tower of the University of Texas at Austin the following morning and, armed with bolt-action rifles and several other firearms, killed seventeen people and wounded thirty-two others in a mass-shooting rampage. I have boxes of rifle ammo stored in strategic locations all over the house. I need only remember to save one bullet for myself.
The police, the FBI or anyone else for that matter will never be able to search my house. Before I die, I’ll set the timer for the bomb I’ve constructed.
The only solace I take in this scenario is that Sarah will join me in death. Together, we’ll travel through the next world – and there is a next world. I’m not a religious man, but I do know that the love we share is something that survives death. Only a monster would believe otherwise.
I could drive back home and do it now. Head downstairs to the basement and then come back up and spare us both what’s coming down the road.
No, that won’t work. There’s no way Sarah won’t see the rifle. I don’t want to scare her. Better to wait until she’s asleep. It’ll be more peaceful that way. Humane.
There’s another option: set the bomb, then crawl into bed and make love to her one last time before the blast rips us apart and scatters our remains for miles. The bomb’s construction is simple but crudely effective: a timer connected to five sticks of dynamite, with blasting caps stolen from a locked storage facility at a construction site.
Then my thoughts shift to the picture tucked into my coat pocket. All that work I put into researching Angela Blake and the others, and now I can’t take her or Tricia Lamont or anyone else, all because of that red-headed bitch the FBI sent here.
In my mind’s eye I see my father’s steamer trunk. It sits in a corner of the basement, near my Springfield. The magazines are long gone – my whore of a mother saw to that, burning them in our backyard fire pit – but I still have my father’s uniform and belt, which, while snug, do fit me. In addition to the dynamite and blasting caps, the trunk houses a few other treasures I’ve collected over the years. I pull over to the side of the road, complete a U-turn and drive home.
23
After the briefing, Darby and Hoder went to Police Chief Robinson’s office, a cramped, windowless space with a pair of well-worn chairs placed in front of a well-worn d
esk that looked like it had been picked up at a garage sale. All the furniture had the same discarded feel. The only brightness in the room came from the scattered framed photographs hanging on the wall – pictures of the police chief hunting and fly-fishing with friends and his grandson, a small boy with a thick mop of brown hair that covered his ears.
Hoder took a chair in front of the police chief’s desk. Robinson sat on the other side, the receiver for his office phone pressed against an ear, one hand massaging his forehead. Darby was too wired to sit, but she didn’t want to pace around the room and have Hoder and Robinson think the texts had rattled her. Instead, she leaned against a filing cabinet, her arm propped on the top.
The man who had photographed her last night had sent copies of the pictures to every Red Hill cop. Ray Williams had signed out a squad car and gone to meet the four men who were out on patrol this morning, to make sure they deleted the pictures from their cell phones. Deputy Sheriff Lancaster had received copies as well.
Coop had tried to call her on her cell, but the signal had dropped. She’d phoned back from a land-line but had been connected straight to voicemail. She’d left a message explaining what had happened.
Robinson was saying something to her.
‘Sorry, could you repeat that?’
‘I said I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share anything with Teddy Lancaster until these cases are pulled from us.’
‘Is Lancaster a part of the investigation now?’
‘Right now, I’d say he’s more like an overseer, you know, making sure our people do their jobs. But it’s only a matter of time until the powers that be yank this from us. Thing is, and it pains me to admit this, Teddy’s got the manpower. We don’t.’
Robinson leaned back in his seat and folded his hands across his stomach. ‘Ray told me about your little run-in with Teddy last night. Nelson’s version is that Teddy bullied his way into the house. Told him to keep his yap shut. Nelson said he went along with it because he didn’t want to be out of a job. When the incorporation goes through, Teddy’s gonna have the power to hire and fire.’
‘Shit always rises to the top.’
Robinson laughed softly. Then his face turned serious. ‘Nelson’s suspended for two weeks, without pay. After that, he goes in front of a conduct review board comprised of Brewster cops. Want to guess which way that’s gonna turn out?’
There was no anger in the police chief’s voice, just a matter-of-fact weariness. He turned to Hoder and said, ‘We’ve got a website like everyone else on the planet. Our office emails and phone numbers are listed on it, but not our cells, so I have no idea how this guy got access to those. What about you? You advertise?’
‘I’m not listed on the Bureau’s website,’ Hoder said.
‘Miss McCormick?’
‘I don’t have a website and I’m not on Facebook, Twitter or any of those things,’ she said. ‘He got our phone numbers some other way.’
Robinson scratched his chin thoughtfully, his fingernails scraping across his whiskers. ‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ he said. ‘The Ripper hasn’t made contact with anyone associated with the case before. Then you arrive and he decides to come out of the woodwork. Why?’
‘Calling me last night and sending out those pictures within the space of twelve hours – the whole thing smacks of desperation. He’s afraid we’ll find out something.’
‘Not we. You. Why’d he call you and not Hoder? He’s got the higher profile.’
‘Hoder’s not a woman,’ Darby said. ‘Our guy’s thinking he can rattle my cage. That I’m going to, I dunno, break down and cry, pack my bags and skedaddle.
‘I think he made a mistake at the Downes house – that clean-up job in the corner of the bedroom. Now he’s trying to scare me off with the pictures. Were you told that I was coming here to assist Agents Hoder and Cooper?’
Robinson nodded. ‘They both told me. And Williams.’
‘What about the rest of your men? Was some sort of email sent out? Announcement made?’
‘No and no. Why?’
‘Agent Hoder told me this morning that a reporter tried to interview him for a piece that ran in yesterday’s paper. After the meeting, I used the computer in Williams’s office to read the story. My name wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the article. I arrive yesterday to find that another family has been killed. Then it’s like you just said – within the space of twelve hours I receive a phone call and then skin pics of me are sent out. What’s that say to you?’
Robinson looked like he had swallowed a jar of thumbtacks. ‘You’re suggesting the Red Hill Ripper might be a cop?’
‘I’m saying someone has access to restricted information – in this case, all the cell numbers of your people. Could be a cop or it could be a civilian who works for you or in another department. Your people’s contact info is stored on a computer database, right?’
‘Sure. All your details are in here. I added them myself.’
‘What about the place where I’m staying? Is that listed?’
‘Everyone in town knows where you’re staying. It’s the only hotel left in town.’
‘But how did he know which room to watch?’
Robinson didn’t answer. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Miss McCormick, I’m not trying to cause you any further embarrassment, but I’d like to be frank, get my thoughts –’
‘Ask your questions.’
‘It’s fair to say the Ripper gets his rocks off strangling women. We know for a fact that someone watched you undressing in your hotel room last night, called and threatened you, and then sent out the pictures.’
‘You’re wondering if he’s targeted me as a potential victim?’
‘I’m inclined to take this threat seriously. Aren’t you?’
‘Has he contacted any of his previous victims?’
‘Nothing we’ve found indicates he did.’
‘Then why would he suddenly break the pattern with me? Why bother putting himself on our radar screen? If he really views me as a potential victim, he wouldn’t announce himself that way. He’d stay in the shadows and wait. The only reason for calling me and sending out those pictures was to embarrass me. To get me to leave.’
Robinson looked to Hoder either for confirmation of her words or for a second opinion.
‘It’s a valid point,’ Hoder said.
‘Still,’ Robinson said, his gaze sliding back to Darby, ‘I’d sleep a bit better knowing someone was keeping a close eye on you.’
‘I’m staying in a hotel packed with federal agents. What safer place is there?’
‘What I meant was I’d feel better if you didn’t travel anywhere alone.’
‘You want someone from the swinging-dicks club by my side.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘I’m a woman, so I can’t handle myself. Because I don’t have a swizzle stick and a big pair of peaches between my legs, I need a man by my side. If I did, you’d tell me to be careful out there and watch my back.’
‘I genuinely meant no disrespect, Miss McCormick.’
Darby could see that this was true. She sucked in air through her nose, pushed herself off the filing cabinet and let out a long breath. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m operating on only a couple of hours of sleep. It doesn’t help my disposition.’
Her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. Another text message had been delivered.
24
Darby took out her phone and read the message displayed on the screen.
‘It’s Coop,’ she said. ‘He wants me to call him from a land-line. May I borrow your phone, Chief?’
Darby stood while she dialled the number Coop had included in the message. The line on the other end rang once.
‘Cooper.’
‘It’s me. I tried calling you earlier.’
‘I had my phone turned off. The computer guys at RCFL make you turn it off when you go into this particular section of the building, something to
do with the cell signals screwing up some of their equipment.’
‘You got my message?’
‘About the pictures? Yeah, I got it.’
‘I take it you received copies as well.’
‘Two of them, texted to my phone.’
Darby heard the sorrow in his voice – and some pity too. The latter cut more deeply.
‘If it’s any consolation, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said.
‘That’s it? No smartass comment?’
‘I always wondered if the carpet matched the drapes, and now I know.’
‘That’s better,’ Darby said. As embarrassing as the situation was, she needed him to be normal. She didn’t want him to be tiptoeing around her like every other man here. ‘Have you been productive this morning, or have you squandered your time leering at my nude shots?’
‘Since I’m a professional FBI agent first and foremost, I managed to put aside my horn-dog tendencies and get some actual work done. Is Hoder with you?’
‘I’m standing next to him. We’re in Chief Robinson’s office.’
‘Any way to put me on speakerphone?’
‘Hold on.’
Darby relayed the request to the police chief. Robinson reached into his desk drawer and his liver-spotted hand came back with a small peach-coloured speakerphone unit that looked like it had been invented around the time of the rotary phone. It took him a couple of minutes of fumbling with the wires and appropriate knobs and buttons before Coop’s tinny voice could be heard over the speaker.
‘Can everyone hear me? Good. Okay, let’s start with the iPad found on the nightstand in the Downes bedroom. Darby’s theory about the killer recording what he did to the family is correct.’
Hoder’s eyebrows arched in surprise and admiration. The police chief gaped openly at her from the other side of the desk. Darby wrote in her notebook.
‘The Nerd Herd – that’s what these guys call themselves – found an app called iSeeu installed on the iPad,’ Coop said. ‘Software’s free, can be downloaded to iPads and iPods and iPhones, Android smartphones, Macs and PCs, you name it. It’s designed so you can spy on your significant other to see if he or she is cheating on you. Or maybe you want to monitor your teenage son, make sure he isn’t cruising around the internet looking for free porn. You can set up the software to send copies of texts, emails and your browsing history to your computer. Software runs invisibly in the background without the user knowing. Here’s the best part: you can set it up to record without alerting the user.’
