by Mike Omer
She could do it. It wasn’t really that hard. She had killed a kid just a few days before, hadn’t she? She was made of stronger stuff than Darrel.
And then Darrel appeared on her television screen. Well, not him, really, but a sketch—a badly drawn sketch—of her partner in crime.
She turned up the volume, tensing in her chair. The reporter said this man was wanted for questioning by the police and the FBI regarding the murder of Glen Haney.
It took her a moment to realize who Glen Haney was: the kid who had showed up at Darrel’s house. The kid she had killed. Damn it! How long before the police figured out whose face was on that sketch? They should move the girl.
But moving the girl had its own risks. Someone could notice. Something could go wrong.
Was it better to just hope the police and FBI wouldn’t realize who the sketch matched?
It was a bad sketch.
But they’d figure it out, eventually. And through Darrel they could get to her.
The kid led to her. And Darrel led to her. A trail the police could easily follow.
Things needed to move faster.
She had a future to look forward to. A future with three million dollars to make her life comfortable. And she would have her justice.
Morris Vinson wanted the system to work, he really did. Ideally, they would all live in a country where the police did their job, criminals went to jail, and innocent citizens never got hurt. But this, unfortunately, was not the case. Cops got fat on doughnuts and corruption, the feds had a huge thumb up their ass, and it was up to the public to fix what was broken. Morris was no hero, he’d be the first to admit it; he was just a guy that wanted to do his part for the community.
He didn’t like the term “amateur detective.” It made him sound… like an amateur. Morris prided himself on being one of the better online investigators out there. In two separate cases, using nothing but his computer, he’d managed to locate criminals—one of them a mugger, the other a drug dealer—and report them to the police. Really, it wasn’t so difficult; criminals often boasted about their own law-breaking acts. Morris only needed to be on alert for certain keywords on social media. Simple scripts pointed him in the right direction.
Online criminal investigators often got bad rep, especially after the Boston Marathon Bombing—but what people didn’t know was that Redditors had also pointed out Dzhokar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev. Sure, they zeroed in on the wrong guy, but didn’t the police often do that?
People like Morris could do things the police and the FBI couldn’t. They weren’t bound to regulations and rules. They were only bound to truth and justice. And they had the power of hundreds of investigators… if they could only make them work together. And Morris was good at that.
When Abigail Lisman’s case became known, it was Morris who had opened the main subreddit that was accumulating the intel on the case. He was the one who asked the public to send images of that night. When the image of Abigail and her friend turned up, did anyone call and thank him?
Spoiler alert: They did not.
When people on the subreddit decided to go to Glenmore Park to investigate further, Morris knew he had to be part of it.
They had four agents on scene. That’s how they identified themselves. Agents. They were six before, but two had had to go home on Monday because of high school or some shit. That was fine by Morris; this was not a job for kids. The agents he had on the ground were grown men who could handle themselves.
He wasn’t formally in charge, of course; the whole point was that they were working individually. Each one had his own leads, his own way of doing things.
Morris, for example, had contacted Yaaasiv42, a guy on Reddit who was also a hacker. He’d asked him to obtain the security camera videos from the gas station and the post office near the scene. Yaaasiv42 told him he wasn’t the first to ask him for CCTV feeds from that night, which was surprising. But when he’d asked further questions, the hacker clamped shut. He didn’t divulge info about other clients, he said. He named his price, which Morris happily paid, and a day later, he’d sent Morris the footage.
Morris was analyzing the footage when RemiDD posted the first image of “gray hoodie guy.” RemiDD had been camping in front of the crime scene, constantly taking pictures of people who went by, hoping that the kidnapper would return to the scene of the crime. Gray hoodie guy went by on Sunday and on Monday.
Their fellow investigators quickly found out gray hoodie guy’s identity: Kevin Baker. From that point on, the evidence trail grew incredibly quickly. It turned out he had a van like the one rumored to have been used in the kidnapping. According to a Redditor with access to police records, he had prior convictions. And a picture of him turned up during the night of the kidnapping only a few hundred feet from the scene.
It was time for the agents to meet. Morris knew only one of them by face, a lanky pale faced guy named Dan, whose Reddit nickname was Dantor.
Wardenofthenorth turned out to be a short, wide, bearded fellow, completely bald. RemiDD took Morris completely by surprise, as she was actually a woman. He had no problem with that; she looked cool, and he could already imagine meeting her again after this was all over.
But first, it was time to save a little girl’s life.
When Mitchell walked into the squad room in the morning, Hannah was already there. He walked over to his computer, bidding her a distracted good morning. She turned her head and he paused.
“Are you okay?” he asked. She looked terrible. Her eyes were swollen; her hair was a mess. Her skin was deathly pale, and for one terrible moment he thought she was about to cry.
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice tight. “I just didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Oh, okay.” Mitchell nodded. He could understand. It must be difficult, seeing Abigail’s mother every day with nothing new to report and the progress terribly slow. The time since the last Instagram post was growing longer, and some people were beginning to suspect the girl was dead. Hannah was a very intense person even without all that weight on her shoulders. This case was driving her to exhaustion.
He sat down in front of the computer, and pushed the mouse a bit to bring the monitor to life. He read some e-mails, got himself a cup of coffee, then inspected the whiteboard. The latest addition was a frame taken from the CCTV footage the night Haney’s body was dropped. It was an image of the car driving down the street, the driver barely visible and wearing a ski mask. These guys definitely knew what they were doing.
“We should do a door-to-door on Cypress Street,” he said. “We might find someone else besides Peter Bell who saw the killer.”
Hannah nodded. “I also want to go over more of the CCTV footage from that area,” she said. “One of them could have our guy after he removed the mask.”
He sat down and browsed to the subreddit, interested in seeing how the amateur detectives were progressing.
There were a lot of new posts. Several mentioned someone called “gray hoodie guy.” Great. A new suspect.
Mitchell began reading them one by one. He lifted his coffee cup to his lips, and then his hand paused.
There were images of gray hoodie guy walking by the park. Apparently he’d walked by the park two mornings in a row now.
One of the posts gave a name to gray hoodie guy: Kevin Baker.
Another post showed an image of a black van like the one Gracie had described. It said the van belonged to Kevin. There was no actual proof to back this fact up.
A fourth post had a picture taken from the night of the kidnapping. A couple had taken a selfie, hugging and kissing, and in the background was a dark-skinned man wearing a gray hoodie, walking down the street alone, his face blurry. HandsomeBob11 claimed this picture was taken just a few hundred feet from the kidnapping site. He pointed out helpfully that this was the same gray hoodie Kevin had in his possession. He also claimed that the man’s face had several basic features which aligned with Kevin’s. As far as Mitchell could tell,
the only feature both men shared was their skin color.
A fifth post alluded to Kevin’s address. Someone had it. It wasn’t posted on Reddit, but it was clear that the address had been passed privately between users.
There were a lot of upvotes. A lot of comments. This case, apparently, has gone on long enough. The mob wanted the kidnappers dealt with, and they wanted it now.
Mitchell got up, grabbing his keys and gun from his desk. “Hannah,” he said. “We have to go. I think someone is about to get hurt.”
Kevin was having a very bad morning. He had woken up with a pounding in his skull. He knew that pounding well, and there was no getting away from it. It was going to develop into a full-blown migraine before the day ended, like it always did.
He took a couple of ibuprofen, swallowing each with several gulps of water. He was brushing his teeth when the phone rang. The caller ID read ID unknown, and when he answered, a torrent of curses and threats was hurled at him. He hung up, his heart beating fast.
The phone rang a second time—ID unknown again—and he let it go to voice mail. Whoever it was left him a voice message. He considered calling the police, but doubted they’d do anything about a random abusive call.
He was eating cereal when his phone blipped, showing he had a new text message. He viewed it. It simply said We found you, you child stealing pervert.
For a moment he simply stared at the phone, feeling physically ill. He nearly threw up the cereal he had just eaten. He put the rest of the bowl in the sink. Then he began dialing 91… and paused. The police would probably tell him to come over. And his boss was pissed at him enough already. Best to ignore it.
He considered leaving his phone at home, but who walked around without a phone these days? He shoved it into his backpack, slung it on his back, and walked out of his apartment. The door slammed a little too loudly, making him jump. Everything felt hostile and dangerous. He locked the door behind him, taking several deep breaths.
Down the hall, he pressed the button for the elevator and waited. It took ages to get there. Several times he imagined hearing a noise behind him, and glanced back, seeing nothing. His phone blipped again. He was convinced it was another hateful text. He ignored it, thinking he’d talk to the guys at work, see if they thought he should report this to the police.
There was a group of young people just by the entrance to the building, and he walked by them and turned left to go to work. It took him only a few seconds to realize they were following him.
Kevin was not easily intimidated; he’d had his fair share of bullies at school, and had learned to stand up for himself. But the phone call and the message he’d gotten that morning had rattled him, and he felt slightly panicky. It didn’t help that his phone blipped again. The group behind him were walking no more than a dozen feet behind him, saying nothing. It occurred to him that all four of them were white. He risked a quick glance backward.
They were definitely all looking at him, and their eyes were full of hate and anger. He realized his breathing was shallow and fast, his heart rattling in his chest like a drummer in a military parade.
He began running.
He heard them chasing him, shouting to each other. He breathed in deep gulps, the freezing air hurting his lungs. Someone crashed into him and they tumbled down together; his head hit the sidewalk, his vision momentarily clouded. There was a deep sharp pain in his gut as someone kicked him, then another foot hit him in the back. And they were all shouting at him unintelligibly as they kicked him over and over again.
Hannah yelled at Holly the dispatcher as Mitchell swerved the car, turning onto Babel Lane, the tires squealing.
“No, Holly, send one squad car to his home address, the other to the playground on Babel Lane!”
She could hear Holly talking on the radio as she hollered at her. “Three sixty-two, Dispatch.”
“Go ahead,” a crackling voice answered Holly on the radio. It was Kate, one of the patrol officers.
“Three sixty-two, support needed at 6 Kimball Way.”
“Dispatch, this is three sixty-two, copy, on our way.”
“And the second patrol to the playing ground,” Hannah said again, more calm, as Mitchell slowed down, checking the addresses.
“Detective Shor,” Holly sounded pissed off. “The second patrol is currently engaged on the other side of town and I can’t—”
“Mitchell!” Hannah pointed ahead.
“I see them,” he said grimly, accelerating.
Four people stood in a circle on the sidewalk ahead of them. Though she couldn’t see what they were standing over, she could hazard a guess. The way their bodies were hunched, the way their feet were moving, someone was lying on the ground getting the crap beaten out of him.
“Holly, send the patrol to the corner of Babel Lane and Kimball Way, four men are assaulting someone.”
“Three sixty-two, Dispatch,” she could hear Holly say again. She hung up, pocketing the phone, tensing.
Mitchell didn’t bother with parking, and the car bounced over the curb, making Hannah’s teeth jolt. The car was still moving when Hannah opened the passenger door and leapt out, shouting, “Police! Everyone freeze and put your hands over your heads!”
Hannah could see a man—probably Kevin Baker—lying on the ground, his hands covering his face. He was curled into the fetal position, and one of the men was kicking him in the back. She didn’t hesitate, slamming into the man closest to her and knocking him to the ground. The second person, a woman, got punched in the belly; she groaned in pain, bending over as she tried to catch her breath. By that point, the other two men had stopped kicking Kevin and were staring at Hannah angrily.
“Police!” she heard Mitchell holler. He stood behind the car, his gun trained on the two standing men… no, not even men. They were almost kids, no more than twenty.
Both of them raised their hands hesitantly.
“What are you pointing that gun at us for?” one of them asked.
Hannah ignored him, kneeling by the man on the ground. His mouth was bleeding, his eyes shut, and he breathed in sharp, pained gulps. But at least he was breathing.
In the distance, Hannah could hear the sirens. The patrol car was coming. “Hey,” she said softly. “You’re going to be okay.”
He didn’t move, just stayed in his bent position, lying on the ground, protecting his head with his hands. She laid her hand on his shoulder gently as she pulled her phone from her pocket, called Dispatch and told Holly to get an ambulance to that address.
Hannah kept talking to the man as calmly as she could, trying to make him move, hoping he would open his eyes. She watched Mitchell as he rounded up the four assailants, ordering them to stand against a nearby building, their faces to the wall. They complied, though they kept yelling for things like lawyers, and their parents, pointing out they were just trying to get that guy to tell them what he had done with Abigail.
“I didn’t do anything,” the man said hoarsely. His voice was low, in pain.
“I know,” Hannah told him. “Don’t worry, we’re not accusing you of anything.”
“I didn’t take that girl.”
“I know,” Hannah said again. “These idiots just made a terrible mistake. Your name is Kevin, right?”
He nodded slightly, opening one of his eyes.
“Kevin, we’ll get you to a hospital to check you out, okay?”
A patrol car pulled up, and Officers Kate Anthony and Noel Lloyd leapt out of the car. Kate went over to Mitchell and the assailants, while Noel knelt by Hannah.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“They thought he was the kidnapper,” she said, her voice sharp and angry. “This is getting out of control.”
The southern window in Naamit and Ron’s living room was the largest window to face the street. Before the kidnapping, there had been a small table by that window, with a potted geranium and a few pictures from their honeymoon. The table had been moved to the corner of the r
oom now. It sat in the darkness, the geranium dried and withered.
Now a chair stood by the window, and Naamit sat on it. She sat on it for hours every day, staring at the street outside. Waiting for Hannah to show up with an update, waiting for one of the FBI agents to come and brief her, waiting for any kind of news.
Secretly—and she didn’t tell anyone, hardly admitted it to herself—she was waiting to see Abigail walking down the street, opening the door, running into her arms. She tried to avoid picturing it. The image sometimes felt so real that when it faded, the wound in her heart pounded even more. And even at the best of times, it was quite unbearable.
Debra had visited her earlier, bringing food yet again. She seemed oblivious to the uneaten food in the fridge, adding more on top of it. She would stay with Naamit for an hour or two, trying to distract her, talking about work, about how they were doing without her. Debra was filling in for her, but only until this thing was resolved. She reassured Naamit, saying over and over that Abigail was probably just fine.
Naamit couldn’t explain to her friend how the word probably hurt more than any other. There was nothing worse than not knowing what was happening to her daughter. It was a morbid case of Schrödinger’s cat. Abigail was fine, and suffering unbearable torment, and dead.
The afternoon light shone on their front yard. It was a beautiful day, almost cloudless, the sky bright blue. It was still chilly outside, though, and the window pane was cold to the touch.
She hardly heard her phone blip with a new message. She sighed, struggling with the desire to ignore it. Lately it had been blipping and ringing non-stop. At first it had been family members and friends, trying to give her their love. Then, strangers started sending her messages. Sending their support, their condolences, and lately—to her horror—scathing messages and phone calls accusing her of neglecting her daughter, of being a drunkard, of falsifying the kidnapping. It made her sick to her stomach.
