Fifteen Times a Killer

by Alan McDermott

  “Forward it to me. Now.”

  Corinna gave her an email address and Claire wrote it down. “As I was saying, I want access to the police reports into the missing persons cases.”

  “Have you sent it yet?” Corrina persisted.

  “No, I was just letting you know my demands.”

  “In that case, please stay where you are. I’ll have two agents pick you up for obstructing a federal investigation. They’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  “You can’t do that,” Claire said confidently.

  “Try me.”

  The phone felt heavy in Claire’s hand, and she realized she might have pushed too hard. Withholding the email suddenly didn’t seem like a good idea. Cursing under her breath, she forwarded the email to Corrina’s address. “Okay, it’s on its way.”

  A moment later, Corrina said she had it, then abruptly hung up.

  Bitch.

  It didn’t matter. Claire wasn’t in the business to make friends. She opened a new document and made a start on her career-defining story.

  Chapter 37

  Chapter Twelve

  Let me tell you about the birds and the bees. Well, maybe not the birds so much. Some taste nice, some are just plain dumb. But the bees…that’s a different story.

  In 1947 there were 6 million honeybee hives in the US. Today there are 2.8 million. That’s a big decrease. Over 50%. And the reason? Global warming? Predation? Aliens?

  Actually, it’s quite simple.

  Man.

  To be more specific, a certain group of men who know for a fact that the chemicals they produce are killing bees, but continue to do it in the name of profit.

  One of these men is Stewart Markland, CEO of IC Chemicals. His company has a varied product line, everything from household cleaners to industrial coolants. However, their best-selling line is probably the deadliest.

  Efrinem.

  You may have heard of it. It’s the most popular weed killer in the country, but it’s the one you won’t find in the stores that does the most damage. The fruits you eat are mostly sprayed with the industrial version, Corosoline, that is deadly to bees. It has been known to cause colony collapse disorder, devastating hives. Once again, big industry is thinking about this year’s balance sheet, not the next fifty years. And they should, because bees pollinate crops such as apples, broccoli (I know, maybe we can let that one go), cranberries, melons, cherries, blueberries, the list goes on. It wouldn’t mean the end of man, but many of the staples we enjoy now would become too expensive for the majority of the planet’s population. Without bees, the diversity and availability of fresh produce would decline substantially. There’s also the ripple effect on the ecosystem to consider.

  Anyway, that’s what Stewart Markland does. He produces chemicals that kill bees, chemicals that are banned in lots of developed countries, but not the good old US of A. Here, apparently, you can destroy the planet with impunity if you employ the right lobbyists. These neonicotinoid pesticides cause all sorts of issues to bees. Even when used on crops that bees don’t frequent, the residue can leak into ground water and is absorbed by flowers that bees pollinate.

  Twelve neonicotinoid brands, manufactured by four different companies, were recently banned. The most notable was Corosoline, the one made by IC Chemicals. Studies into the impact on wildlife were presented to the Environmental Protection Agency, and these showed that there were no adverse effects from the use of the product. Unfortunately, IC forgot to mention that they had paid for the studies with their own money, and emails sent to the EPA by a whistle-blower showed that IC had instructed the company to show their product in the best possible light, otherwise future funding—which the research company relied on to survive—would be withheld. Any detrimental findings were to be omitted.

  Stewart Markland’s name was on those emails.

  So, not only did Stewart help destroy the planet for profit, he personally lied and cheated in order to do it.

  All because he wanted IC Chemicals’ stock price to remain strong.

  Diane Markland died because of it.

  I was going to take her on the quiet road to her remote home, but she surprised me by changing her routine. Stewart was at the lodge meeting he always attended on Fridays. Diane was supposed to eat at her favorite restaurant and return home straight afterwards. This time, she didn’t.

  Instead, she drove to a motel and met a guy who drove a Volvo. They stayed in the room for an hour.

  What do you think they were doing, Stewart? Discussing soft furnishings for the new den? Plotting to take over the planet?

  Fucking?

  That’s what I think they were doing, Stewart. I think he was sticking it in your wife.

  Do you know anyone who drives a Volvo, Stewart? A friend of yours, perhaps? One of your employees? I bet you’d love to know.

  Whoever it was, they put a smile on her face.

  I soon wiped it off.

  Do you know what I did, Stewart? I told her the reason she was here was because you knew about her lover and that you’d paid me to murder her. To teach her a lesson. She told me who it was, but I’m not telling you, Stewart.

  I will tell you what I did to her, though. You might have read about my earlier exploits, specifically the one with the bald-faced hornet. That’s what I did to her, John. I shoved that beast up inside her and let it go to work. Pretty apt, eh? Okay, it’s a wasp, not a bee, but a sting’s a sting when it’s shoved up your pussy.

  Diane wasn’t very fond of you as a result of that. I told her you’d said I should do it so that no-one else would ever want to go there. When I took her toes, she thoroughly hated you. When I snipped off her fingers, one by one, I reminded her that this was all your idea, and she cursed you with words to make a sailor blush. I said I’d been told to make it as painful as possible because she couldn’t keep her legs closed. If only she’d bought a dildo, I told her. When I sliced her nipples off, I told her they were a memento for you, that you’d asked for them as a reminder.

  I kept up the pretense for seven hours, John. She spent her last seven hours on the planet thinking you’d done this to her.

  And in a way, you had. You didn’t order it, but you asked for it.

  Does it hurt, Stewart?

  Chapter Thirteen

  When you go to the polls in November, do you know which mouthpiece you’re voting for?

  Because that’s all they are. Mouthpieces. Someone to stand in the limelight while the puppet master pulls their strings.

  And before you start pinning labels to me, I’m not a die-hard Republican, and I’m not a staunch Democrat. They’re just two oars on the same boat, the good ship ‘Merica, but rowing in opposite directions. Both parties have ruled the land in the last 50 years, and what’s improved for the average Joe? I mentioned before that in the 60s, the main earner could support a wife and two kids comfortably. These days, that’s impossible. Hands up if you think that’s progress.

  Anyway, you’re not voting for someone to shape policy that benefits you, you’re voting for someone to take kickbacks and make policy for big business.

  They all do it. Every politician tells you how much they care about your cause, your situation, but the moment they get into office, the lobbyists arrive and tell them which laws need to be enacted, or rewritten, or scrapped. And they’ll pay big bucks to make this happen. Did you know that lobby firms spent almost $3.5 billion last year? And it’s not just the members of both houses in DC. While most happens at a federal level, lobbying is rampant at state, county, municipal and local government levels, too.

  One such lobbyist is Daniel Harper. Thankfully, the law states that all of his activities must be transparent, so I was able to go through his record and see which people he’d paid off, and what laws he wanted to influence.

  Turns out, Daniel would happily pay lawmakers to make life shitty for the average person.

  Remember that building that collapsed a year or so ago? The one that turned out to
have shallow foundations? That was Daniel. He fought for the building compliance laws to be changed on behalf of the construction companies, just so they could save a few bucks.

  But the one that really sticks out is his effort to relax the law over the quality of drinking water in the city, the one that cut regulations and made it less palatable, less potable. That was Daniel’s doing. He paid the right people and before you know it, you have to boil your water before you can even think about using it. No more drinking straight from the faucet, not while water companies have profits to make.

  Maybe Daniel has his own supply, or has bottled water shipped in daily from the mountains of France. I don’t know. All I know is that whenever I turn on my tap, the water is the color of weak coffee. Every time I take a shower, I come out feeling dirtier than when I went in.

  And why do I have to put up with this? Why does everyone in the city have to endure this crap? Because Daniel Harper wanted to make some money, that’s why. He could have asked the legislators to make childcare free for single parents so that they could go back to work, or free school meals for lower income families, but no, he wanted to screw over the vast majority of the people in the county so that he could get his payoff from the water company.

  Look at what it cost you, Daniel.

  Susan Harper, Daniel’s wife, was my thirteenth victim.

  As Daniel’s crime was to deprive people of clean drinking water, I gave her a taste of his medicine.

  Water.

  From my toilet.

  That I hadn’t flushed for a couple of days.

  It was full of piss and shit, but she drank it all down. Well, she didn’t really have a choice once I shoved the funnel into her mouth. It was that or drown. And believe me, she didn’t want to die.

  Not at first, anyway.

  After the water, I went easy on her for a while, just slicing her skin. Not deep cuts, just half an inch or so. Nothing that would make her bleed out. That in itself isn’t so painful, but pour rubbing alcohol into the wounds and you’ve got an instant banshee! Man, how she howled!

  I gave her half an hour to calm down—no point adding more pain when they’re still dealing with the first wave. Once she was reduced to gentle sobbing, I did the finger and toe thing. You’ve gotta have some consistency, I think.

  Susan had beautiful eyes, don’t you think, Daniel? Blue as the ocean and squidgy as a booger-ball. She wasn’t using them, anyway. I put my mirror above her, but she refused to look. Fine by me. Don’t wanna use them, don’t have them. I took her tongue as well, Daniel. That sweet tongue that had spent so much time down your throat. Gone. She’s licked your balls for the last time, Daniel.

  After that, I just played around until she died. Slicing here, chopping there, breaking bones, removing body parts, you get the idea. Then she just up and passed away. No warning, just…gone.

  Oh, well. I’d made my point.

  Now I’m sure that Daniel will be reading this and thinking, “If I hadn’t lobbied for it, someone else would have. You can’t blame me for the system.”

  Wrong, Daniel. It’s people like you who are happy to screw others over that is the problem, and I’m the remedy. I’ve said before that petitions and placard-waving will solve nothing. My actions will.

  But only if there are more like me out there. Once I’m gone—dead or captured—the Daniel Harpers, Vincent Perrys, the Conrad Veldmans of this world will breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn’t their time, and they’ll continue in their greedy, avaricious ways knowing that the threat to their loved ones is over.

  Don’t let that happen, people.

  You can’t effect change by sitting in front of a keyboard. You need to show them that there are consequences beyond fielding awkward questions. All it takes is one of you to continue what I’ve started. A revolution. A new beginning.

  Your reward? Your name will go down in history.

  Your sacrifice? Your life.

  But what is life at the moment? You’re getting screwed from the moment you wake to the moment you sleep. There’s no escape. You’re working to make someone else rich while you can barely make rent. Call that life? Everyone should be able to work 40 hours and have money in the bank to enjoy the weekend, not scrimp and save to get ten bucks together to buy food for the week.

  Most importantly, people who screw over the little guy in the name of the almighty dollar should be punished for it. Period. They should be too scared to even think about cutting costs at the expense of health and safety. They should know that any unethical practices will be their downfall.

  Who’s with me? Who’s going to be the next Fifteen-X? All you need is a few targets and an exit plan. You could be content with life in prison, or maybe go out with a bang. There are many ways to commit suicide that are quick and painless. I’ve already got mine ready, if I need it. I don’t think I will, because I want to be around when my successor takes over.

  Please let it be you.

  Chapter 38

  Corrina was fuming at the nerve of the reporter when the latest chapters hit her inbox.

  “Got them,” she said, and hung up.

  She checked the email and saw the note the killer had sent to Claire McMillan.

  …it’s time for her to…move on.

  What did he mean by that? From what she knew about Jess, she would never abandon the story, and there was nothing in what she’d written so far to anger Fifteen-X.

  Corrina took out her phone and called Jess’s number.

  It went straight to voicemail.

  She hadn’t expected that. A reporter would never be without their phone in case a story broke. They would have to be available at all times, ready to dash to the scene of the next big scoop.

  Corrina tried again, but with the same results.

  Worry began to set in as she walked over to Josh’s desk.

  “Do me a favor,” she told him. “Do a search for this number.” She held out the cell phone so Josh could copy Jess’s number down. “I want to know where it is.”

  “One second.” Josh’s fingers were a blur as he tapped at his keyboard. After a few moments, he sat back in his chair and looked up at Corrina. “No sign of it. Maybe it’s off.”

  That was unlikely. There was no way Jess would turn it off. Worry turned to full-blown anxiety. “I want you to get everything you can on that number. Last known location, calls in and out, everything.”

  “I’ll get the paperwork going on a warrant. What’s the reason?”

  “She’s been in constant contact with the killer for over a week and suddenly she’s off the grid.”

  “She hasn’t actually been in touch with him,” Josh pointed out. “He sends her emails, sure, but it’s not like they have lunch together or anything.”

  “Please, just do it, Josh. I’m worried about her. If I’m wrong, I’ll take the fall.”

  “Sure. I’ll do it now.” He turned back to his screen. “Four chapters in one day. He’s really revving up.”

  Corrina had wondered about that, too. One every day or two, and then four all at once. Did he think he was running out of time? Were they closing in on him? If they were, it looked more like Seth Benning with every passing moment.

  “Thanks. I’m going to see Benning’s sister. If you find anything, I’ll be on my cell.”

  She patted him on the shoulder and went back to her own desk, where she forwarded the email to McCrae, then retrieved her jacket before walking out to her car. She punched the address for Benning’s sister into her satnav and the route appeared on the screen. Up 405, along 101, then take Topanga Canyon Boulevard to Sherman Way. The Halsey residence was on one of the side streets. She should be able to make it in half an hour, traffic permitting.

  That gave her plenty of time to listen to the new chapters. She opened the first document and turned on Text to Speech, listening as she drove.

  She hoped Josh had news about Jess by the time she got there.

  * * *

  She neared Emma Hal
sey’s place without hearing from her colleague. What she did hear was Fifteen-X’s recruitment campaign. There was no way she could allow that to go to press. She called Claire McMillan and told her to hold off on the story, but the reporter was less than accommodating.

  “Why should I keep it from the public?” she asked. “They have a right to know.”

  “Because he’s inciting people to commit murder,” Corrina pointed out.

  “Not my problem. You allowed Jess to run the other chapters, now it’s my turn. We’re going to press this afternoon.”

  Corrina had expected her to play hardball. She’d encountered Claire a few times in her career, and she wasn’t one for letting go of a story. She tried the soft approach first. “All I’m asking is that you hold off for another twenty-four hours.”

  “Why? What happens then? Are you close to finding him? Is that it?”

  Claire was smart, not to be underestimated. “We have a few leads, but nothing newsworthy at the moment,” Corrina said.

  “I still don’t see how a delay is going to help,” Claire said. “What happens in twenty-four hours that stops it being incitement to murder?”

  The question had Corrina stumped.

  “Or are you planning to catch him by then, and then bury the story?” Claire continued.

  That was exactly what Corrina had in mind but wouldn’t admit it.

  “Jess told us that the killer had you over a barrel,” Claire added, “that he’d refuse to reveal the locations of the remaining bodies if you didn’t print everything word for word. Number twelve, Diane Markland, was reported missing just eight days ago, and Susan Harper four days ago. You think there are no more bodies, don’t you? His hold over you has gone, so you’re not going to play his game anymore. Am I getting close?”

  Not close, dead on.

  The conversation was getting away from Corrina.

  “If I had to put money on it, I’d bet you have a suspect, plan to bring them in today and then force me not to go to press. How close am I?”

  Corrina only had one card to play. “Jess got an email from him, to her personal address, and she did as he asked. Now she’s missing, and he’s sending emails to you. What does that tell you, Claire?”