by Ethan Cross
Marcus scowled and said, “A lesson? That what you call it?”
“You don’t approve?”
“Your killing spree isn’t some kind of sermon you’re preaching to them. It’s more like the tantrum of a petulant child.”
Ackerman Sr. laughed a deep throaty bellow that echoed across the stone. “That’s good, Marcus. And you’re right. It isn’t meant to be a lesson or a sermon. And it’s not truly vengeance, either. It’s my magnum opus. It’s a memorial, a tribute. I’ve brought that city to its knees because they stole my soulmate from me. But I’m not trying to avenge her death. I’m doing all this to honor her memory. It’s my gift to her.”
“How romantic.”
“I think so. But as I was saying, today’s experiment serves many masters. I get to strike a blow in one arena while continuing your treatment. Are you familiar with the trolley problem?”
Marcus said nothing. He continued to stare at the floor.
“I’ll take that as a no. The trolley problem is a moral thought experiment involving sacrificing one for many. It’s a question of human morality and an example of a philosophical view called consequentialism. This view says that morality is defined by the consequences of an action, and that the consequences are all that matter. The setup is that a trolley with five passengers is hurtling out of control and about to crash. Everyone on board will be killed. But you’re in the unique position to flip the trolley onto an alternate track where everyone will be saved. However, a single innocent bystander is walking along that track and will be killed. Do you save five people and sacrifice the one?”
The woman at the table started to scream behind her gag. Marcus thought the muffled yells sounded like the word “help.” Ackerman Sr. turned to her and said, “Please don’t be rude, my dear. We’ll be with you in a moment.”
Then he continued his story. “So now think of the same setup. Only this time you don’t just have to flip the switch to save the trolley. You’re standing beside the man and can push him onto the tracks to save the others. Most people presented with the quandary say that the first is permissible and the second is forbidden. But what’s the difference? Both examples end in the man’s death. Why is there a distinction between actively killing someone and simply allowing them to die? They’re still just as dead. It’s a fascinating philosophical debate, don’t you think?”
Ackerman Sr. leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Here’s what I want to know, Marcus. If you were in either of those positions, what would you do? Would you divert the trolley? Would you push the man onto the tracks?”
“Neither. I’d throw myself in front of the trolley to save them,” Marcus said.
His father chuckled. “Always the hero. Always the martyr. For the sake of argument, let’s say that’s not an option. What do you do then?”
“Who cares? It’s just a stupid hypothetical problem.”
“No, actually, it’s not. You see, I’ve set up a real-world example of the trolley problem. My apprentice has planted a bomb in a courtroom within the Kansas City Municipal Building.” Ackerman Sr. held up his cell phone. “It’s activated by a cellular device and will kill at least five people, probably many more. But you can stop that. All you have to do is sacrifice this woman.”
Marcus looked up at her for the first time. She had mocha-colored skin and full lips. She wore the scrubs of a nurse or hospital worker. He could detect that antiseptic hospital smell on her. She had kind eyes.
“If you ask me to, I will kill this woman and spare the others. I’ll let the bomb go undetonated and tell the authorities where to find it. You’ll save all those people. Just say the word.”
“How do I even know that you’re telling the truth? Maybe there is no bomb.”
“You just have to take my word for it.”
“Your word is worthless.”
“I assure you that there is a bomb. And I will spare them. If you choose to kill for them.”
“No matter what I do, it’s not my choice. It’s yours. You’re the one responsible. I choose nothing. I won’t play your game. I won’t sacrifice a single innocent person. No matter what the consequences are.”
“Interesting, but what if it was me? What if you could push me onto the tracks to save those people?”
Marcus looked deep into his father’s eyes, his hatred shining bright. “I wouldn’t hesitate to send you straight to hell.”
“Of course you would. But, out of curiosity, how do you morally justify that?”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me what’s ‘morally justified’ anymore. That’s what my heart tells me. So that’s what I’d do.”
Ackerman Sr. smiled. “And you’re not afraid to do what your heart tells you. That’s excellent. We’re making real progress, son. We still have a long journey ahead, but we’re well on our way.”
His father pressed a few buttons on his cell phone and said, “I just detonated the bomb.” Then he raised his Beretta pistol and shot the nurse in the head.
PART THREE
81
DRIVING A 1980S MODEL GMC SIERRA THAT THEY HAD BORROWED FROM LOUIS ACKERMAN, MAGGIE HAD SET OFF TOWARD KANSAS CITY IN THE HOPE THAT STAN, THEIR IT GURU, WOULD BE ABLE TO TURN THE NEW INFORMATION PROVIDED BY LOUIS ACKERMAN INTO A CONCRETE LEAD. The eldest Ackerman had finally revealed that he had been in contact with his son a few years earlier. Francis Ackerman Sr. had shown up at his door one day and asked his father to complete his training in the ways of mask-making. Louis had apparently hoped the boy would take over his business one day and had begun his instruction when Francis was in high school. However, his son had never been passionate about it—his artistic talents leaned more toward music. Louis had given his son some advanced lessons, and Francis disappeared again. But not before leaving an address for Louis to send a monthly supply of raw mask-making materials, including silicone and vinyl chloride resin.
The address was that of an anonymous mail-forwarding service, which forwarded to yet another service, and then another. Under normal circumstances, law enforcement would have required three separate warrants to find out the final destinations of the forwarded mail. Luckily, the Shepherd Organization wasn’t normal law enforcement, and one of Stan’s specialties was breaking into secure computer systems without leaving a trace.
The MIT-grad had been reluctant to help at first—the Director had ordered him to report any contact he received from Maggie and offer no assistance—but she and Stan had always been close. He was like a big brother to her, and with a little bit of begging, he agreed to help.
Stan had already tracked Ackerman Sr.’s deliveries through two of the services and was now working on the third—and hopefully final—mail-forwarding company. With any luck, they would know an actual physical address soon.
Maggie hadn’t said much to Ackerman during the drive, and he had been quiet as well. He just sat in the passenger seat with a satisfied look on his face, like the fat cat who had just eaten the canary. She noticed him raise his right hand to his nose and inhale deeply. She couldn’t resist. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“I can still smell that metallic scent of blood on my fingers. I had forgotten how much I enjoy it.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Oh, come now, little sister. Are you truly angry with me for killing those men? Or are you just feeling guilty for having ordered their deaths?”
“I didn’t order anything.”
Ackerman said, “I seem to recall the situation differently. You wanted your little attack dog off its leash, but then you turned your nose up when it bit one of the neighbors. Not even you can fault me for what happened back in the swamp.”
“You didn’t have to be so...”
“What? Good at it?”
“Excited. But you know, it was for the best. You saved us. And there, for just a brief second, I almost started to think of you as a human being. So thank you for reminding me of the monster you really are.”
Maggie e
xpected some clever and twisted retort, but Ackerman said nothing. She briefly took her eyes off the road and looked over at him. He was staring straight out the window with a strange, distant look on his face. Then she thought she saw tears forming in his eyes, but that couldn’t be. It must have just been a trick of the light. Ackerman didn’t have feelings. Or did he?
Maggie was about to say something when her phone rang. She slid her finger across the display to answer the call and pressed the button to activate the speaker function. “Give me good news, Stan,” she said.
“Your wish is my command. The last service is redirecting all mail to a PO box in Leavenworth, KS.”
“Who owns the box?”
“It’s actually registered to an LLC that doesn’t do any business.”
She slammed her fist on the steering wheel. “A dummy corporation.”
“Exactly, like paranoid much? It’s no wonder this guy has stayed under the radar all these years. Here’s the thing, though. The shell corporation has a bank account in Belarus, which makes sense because their government doesn’t like to play ball with our law enforcement. So I worked my magic, and I got the address from that account, which is linked to a building in Leavenworth.”
“You hacked into a bank in Belarus?”
“Actually, no. I did this one the old-fashioned way. I got the bank’s list of employees and then found one with some gambling debts. And, well, let’s just say that our operating expenditures are going to be a little high this month. So... here’s the part where you tell me I’m a genius.”
Maggie laughed and said, “You’re a genius, and I love you for it. What do we know about the building?”
“It’s a music store called the Thirteenth Fret.”
82
AS SHE PULLED THE SIERRA UP TO THE CURB ACROSS THE STREET FROM THE THIRTEENTH FRET, MAGGIE COULDN’T RESIST THE URGE TO SLAM HER FIST AGAINST THE DASHBOARD. Ackerman asked, “What was that all about?”
“I’ve been here before.”
“What do you mean?”
“After Marcus was taken, I checked out everyone in a hundred miles with a name that could match the information you gave us. When that didn’t pan out, I paid a personal visit to every music store or place that gave lessons within a hundred miles.”
Ackerman added, “Also as I suggested.”
“I remember coming here. I questioned a man that was the right age, but he didn’t look anything like the pictures of your father I’ve seen.”
“I suspect he’s had multiple rounds of plastic surgery, plus it’s been a lot of years. I may not even recognize him now.”
“He gave me the owner’s name, and Stan checked the property records. They matched up. I moved on. He was just so charming and personable. He reminded me of my grandpa. There was a kid in there getting a lesson, and the kid seemed to really enjoy learning from the guy. It just didn’t match up with anything I knew about him. But now... that had to have been him. I was face to face with him. Hell, I could have been twenty feet from where Marcus is being held.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You definitely aren’t the first agent to stare a serial killer in the face and not know it.” Ackerman gestured at the many people walking down the streets of Leavenworth. It looked like any other small Midwestern town. A group of teenage couples strolled hand in hand, joking and laughing. Men and women went about their daily business. Two kids who couldn’t have been older than junior-high age entered a nearby restaurant.
He said, “All these people have been living and working beside him every day, and they didn’t know it. The BTK Killer was president of the Congregation Council of Christ Lutheran Church and a Cub Scout leader. How are you supposed to pick him out from one interview? If the facts checked out, then you move on. It’s all you could do.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
“How do you want to handle this? Should we call in the police or some kind of backup?”
“We’re wanted fugitives. We need to be sure. If we make a call like that, and he’s not here, then we’ll have blown our only shot. We can’t even be completely sure that the older man I met was him. He could work here giving lessons on the side, or he might just be a customer or friend that knows the owner well enough to have some mail delivered here. We have to play this off like we’re customers. See if the guy I met is here and then see how he reacts when he sees you. Besides, don’t you think we can handle an old man?”
Maggie saw something in Ackerman’s eyes that she never expected to witness. Fear.
He said, “Physically, yes. But you don’t know my father. He’s not a man you should ever underestimate. Compared to him, I’m practically cute and cuddly.”
83
THE DOOR OF MARCUS’S CELL CRACKED OPEN, AND HIS FATHER LAID A COMPUTER PRINTOUT ON THE FLOOR. With a smile, Ackerman Sr. said, “I just found that article on CNN.com. Our escapades are national news already. I’ll leave the light on so you can read it. Think you’ll find it intriguing. But just wait. That’s a taste of what’s to come. Merely a test of the binary explosive that I’ve acquired. The real show will be two days from now. My grand finale for the people of Kansas City. But don’t worry, the three of us—you, me, and Dylan—will carry on somewhere else. Three generations of the Ackerman clan, together at last. Your education has only just begun, my boy.”
The door clanged shut. Marcus heard the lock engage, but the lights stayed on. He dragged his pale, broken body over to the door and gathered up the two pieces of paper. The headline read, “Eight Die in Kansas City Courthouse Bombing.”
He crumpled up the papers and threw them across the cell. The tears came fast and hard. His body shook, and he banged his head against the stone floor. He couldn’t go on like this anymore. He wanted to stay strong and alive for Dylan, but his “education” was just giving his father an excuse to kill more and more innocent people. The death toll was rising, and Marcus could no longer bear so much blood on his hands. He was drowning in it. It was choking the light from his soul. A little piece of his humanity died with every one of his father’s victims.
And worse yet, what if his father succeeded? Marcus knew he was capable of the same evil that possessed his father and brother. What if Ackerman Sr. was able to unleash that darkness in him? He couldn’t let that happen.
Marcus looked down at his wrists. They were pale and thin, and he could see the veins through his ashen skin. His mind made up, he brought his forearm to his mouth and bit into his own flesh.
*
Thomas White, the man formerly known as Francis Ackerman Sr., walked back toward his workshop and admired his masks that covered one whole wall. His skill was growing. Although he might never reach the level of ability that his father possessed, he definitely felt that he had captured the pain and torment of his subjects.
He grabbed one of the masks from its perch and admired it. The three-dimensional expression of death and agony was so vivid and alive, much better than any picture or video. The masks truly took him back to the moments of his victims’ deaths and allowed him to relive their exquisite suffering over and over again. Reconnecting with his father and perfecting the craft was one of the best decisions he had made.
His cell phone rang, and he recognized it as the number of the music store. He had instructed the teenager he had hired to man the store not to disturb him unless absolutely necessary, and so he knew it must be important. Duty called.
“Yes?” he answered.
“Sorry to bother you, boss, but there’s a couple up here who said they’re thinking about purchasing a new sound system and a grand piano for their church. They wanted to speak to an expert, so I figured you would want to handle it.”
Thomas thought about that. It was very fortuitous timing. He could definitely use some extra cash for his coming relocation. “I’ll be up in just a moment.”
*
The kid manning the music store said, “The boss will be right up.”
Ackerman nodded and ran his f
ingers over the strings of an expensive Martin guitar with intricate gold inlay. He had never learned how to play an instrument himself. He enjoyed music, but the thought of playing had never interested him. Still, he remembered lying on the floor of his cell as a boy and listening to the melancholy notes of his father’s guitar on the other side of his door. He had always wondered how such beautiful and flawless music could come from a man with such an ugly and broken soul.
Ackerman heard movement from a back room and directed his gaze toward the wall behind the counter. A honey-colored door creaked on its hinges, and an older man stepped through. He wore a sweater over a white dress shirt and gray slacks. He looked like a professor. His eyes were bright with intelligence and madness. Ackerman felt his knees tremble upon seeing his father alive after so many years. The man who had tortured and molded him into a monster. The man who had stolen his childhood, his innocence, and any hope he had ever had of a normal life. And here he was, in the flesh.
His nose was different. The chin. The cheekbones. But not the eyes. He couldn’t change the eyes. And those were the eyes that Ackerman had seen in his nightmares for as long as he could remember.
His father froze, recognition and understanding passing over his features like a creeping shadow, the mask he wore to the world fading away, the facade peeling back to reveal the killer beneath.
“Everything okay, Mr. White?” the kid behind the counter asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
From the corner of his eye, Ackerman saw Maggie go for her gun.
The man the teenager knew as Mr. White acted quickly and decisively before Maggie could bring her pistol to bear. If he had hesitated for just a fraction of a second, Maggie would have had him dead to rights, but Mr. White moved with a speed and assurance that surprised even Ackerman.
