Monster: The Story Of A Maniac

by Peter Cry

  “How is she, by the way? Still gorgeous?” Mr. O’Neal smiled. “She has the most beautiful shapes.”

  “If that’s what you are asking...” Alfred was embarrassed. “She’s still equipped with all the fixings.”

  Following the dialogue, the four players at the table nodded their heads expertly and looked at each other with a smile.

  “Hey, shut up!” Simon glanced at them.

  The players stared at the white dominoes with fear and began quietly discussing something among themselves.

  “I have to go,” Alfred said, heading to the exit.

  Simon O’Neal continued to gently growl at his friends, and they timidly answered him the same, laughing, hurrying to continue the game. The strong, tormented by fate man did not even notice how the stranger, at which he almost laid into, disappeared.

  ***

  “Haven’t you found anything worthwhile in three months?” Rita was talking with her subordinate, standing at the window in the operatives' room. “Polaski, you're the best FBI agent if it comes to the Deep Web! There must be at least some roots, transactions, bitcoins, and other bullshit. The children could not have disappeared without a trace, it does not happen.”

  “No, ma'am,” he said, straightening his tight, suffocating tie. “There’s nothing. No photos with them, not a single video. Maybe, after all, it was a donorship?”

  “Don't give me that shit again,” Rita said.

  Putting one hand on her waist, she looked out of the window at the street. Cars drove down the gray road, pedestrians hurried somewhere along the sidewalks. Anxious, Director Coleman gazed through the city into the void.

  “If someone needs organs, they use Russia or Syria for that. A group was involved here. A maniac could not have done anything like that alone”

  Rita looked sadly at Agent Polaski. “Dig, my friend, dig deeper. I am sure there are traces somewhere on the network. And you must find them.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” the agent nodded his head, and then hastened to one of his colleagues, who was busy with documents.

  Rita went to her office. Passing by the workplace of Agent Duncan, she noticed that Kate was looking at herself in a small mirror from her beauty bag, checking if everything was okay with her gentle make-up. It was striking how much Kate glowed from the inside. To Director Coleman, she seemed like a little puppy who was about to meet her master.

  Slowly, Rita swam to Kate.

  “How are you?” she asked with interest.

  “I’m fine,” smiled her subordinate.

  Hiding the mirror in her purse, Kate looked around.

  “And to be honest, everything is just perfect,” she whispered, looking conspiratorially at her boss.

  “Come on, say it to me,” Rita worried, feeling that something was amiss.

  “Alfred and I are having dinner tonight.”

  Director Coleman seemed to physically feel as if a bucket of cold water had been splashed into her face, after which someone opened her chest without anesthesia, ripped out her heart and smashed it with the heel of the red shoe on Kate’s elegant leg.

  “How exciting,” Rita whispered.

  “I know that it’s not appropriate,” Agent Duncan said. “But still we are from two different departments, so that does not count.”

  Rita sat down on the edge of the desk.

  “Yes, Kate, it’s not customary with us. Not to say that the departments, where you and Agent Hope work, were united recently. If Benjamin finds out, there will be a mess.”

  Kate thought for a moment.

  “Do you think that was a bad idea?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” Director Coleman genuinely wanted to help. “And who initiated your dinner?”

  “Remember, at the beginning of the week Alfred walked very depressed and sad?

  “I remember,” Rita nodded, knowing exactly the reason for the bad mood of the newcomer from Seattle.

  “I have been trying to get at the heart of the matter for several days, but he never told me. Then on Thursday, after I started to buzz once again, he simply invited me to dinner.”

  “Just like that...” Rita nodded her head crossly.

  She looked at the young attractive girl who, with her inspired look and girlish beautiful voice pouring like a stream, chirped, talking about what made her glow from the inside. There was a feeling of envy in her, but not evil. She was not angry that Kate had similar emotions for the man whom she also liked. Rita was angry with herself that she had voluntarily rejected that experience.

  “You think we shouldn't go on a date?” Kate asked, afraid to hear a positive answer.

  Having risen from the table, the hurt Rita laid her hand on the thin wrist of her subordinate and smiled playfully.

  “You should, Kate. Of course, you should. Just be careful. Agent Hope is a special person, a special approach is required to him.”

  “I appreciate your advice, ma'am.”

  “Good luck,” she said coldly, walking to the door.

  Once on the landing, Rita met the one whom at that moment she wanted to see the least.

  Agent Hope, dressed in a short gray coat, with a black leather case in his hands, went up the stairs. Quickly adjusting her tight-fitting black skirt and black fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she took the most beautiful and proud pose of the impregnable queen, who always looked down at her people.

  Walking up the stairs to the third floor, Alfred raised his head and saw a graceful image towering above him – a lady in black. Remaining two steps below the landing, he smiled in a friendly way.

  “Congratulations, Alfred.”

  “On what?” he did not understand.

  “On the fact that now I’m not the only one from whom you don’t want to jump back.”

  “What?” the federal agent was still confused.

  Touched to the core, Rita was incredibly annoyed by the theatrical misunderstanding of her subordinate.

  “In the parking lot, you told me that I am the only person who doesn’t make you want to jump back. It turns out that Kate was as lucky as I am. Who would have thought that on the whole planet there are only two such women, and what a coincidence – both work in the same city and even in the same building!”

  “Ah, that’s what you were on about...” Alfred nodded in understanding, taking his time walking up the remaining two steps.

  Stopping beside his boss, he gave her a careless look.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the young agent said quietly.

  “What?” Rita crossed her arms on her chest, taking the question she heard as an offense.

  “Such a strong, confident Rita Coleman,” Alfred played cat and mouse with his boss, “behaves like a little jealous girl from college.”

  “What?!” she exclaimed.

  “We have a working relationship here. And we should not indulge in affairs, especially with those who are lower in status and rank, especially if in the past they were a simple patrolman who until recently had slept under a bridge in a cardboard box.”

  Rita was taken aback.

  “When we spoke in the parking lot, everything I said did not have that kind of overtone.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Agent Hope answered his boss indifferently. “What matters is that you’ve rejected me, you were not interested in me, and I will not suffer my whole life alone, feeling sorry for myself. How scary that I don’t remember anything, how terrible that I don’t try to find a common language with my colleagues. I will work on myself to change it. Kate is a good girl, and she will help me with that.”

  “What nonsense!” Rita almost stamped her foot on the gray-steel floor tile. “I'm interested in you!”

  “Are you? And when did you understand that? Before Kate told you, we were having dinner with her, or after?”

  Rita was confused. She wanted to reply in a biting way, saying something smart and victorious, but, frozen in a ridiculous pose with her mouth open, she simply swallowed air.


  “That’s what I’ve thought,” Alfred said coldly.

  Without waiting for his boss to recover, he disappeared behind the doors…

  Chapter 19

  "No, I won’t do anything for free!” Damien Brannon spoke irritably to someone on the phone while sitting in his office. “Each profile costs money,” he paused for a second. “Yes! Yes... No! All the best.” Putting the phone down, he got up from his chair and shouted through the open door – “Cindy, bring me some coffee... The strong one!”

  Without knocking, a tall young brunette in a dark blue suit and polished black shoes walked in the door of the small office, rented in the downtown of Indianapolis. Hustling around the coffee maker, holding a cup and a saucer the secretary was confused.

  “FBI,” Alfred showed his documents. “Is Mr. Brannon here?”

  The tiny secretary and part-time accountant, whose tormented face was dressed in huge glasses, was frightened and noticeably shook.

  “Yes, he’s in the office. I shall let him know that you came.”

  “No worries,” The agent put away his badge in the inside pocket of his jacket. “You’d better make another coffee.” Taking a few steps, he carelessly opened the door and entered a narrow, unmanaged office.

  By the appearance of his arrogant guest, Damien Brannon immediately realized that he was a representative of the authorities. Going through the options in his head about whom he might be, Damien prayed that it would not be a tax representative or a landlord.

  Looking into Mr. Brannon's eyes, Alfred, gently, almost silently turning the round knob, closed the door.

  “Agent Hope, FBI,” he said quietly.

  The short mature man with a long sharp nose began to tremble slightly after hearing that. His pale gray eyes ran nervously.

  “Have a seat. How can I be of service to the agency?” standing up, Mr. Brannon held out his hand. “We are kind of colleagues with you. I’m also an agent, the talent agent,” he smiled cowardly.

  Alfred noticed that the owner of the uncared office, from the ceiling to the floor stuffed with folders and profiles of those who dreamed of becoming a celebrity, was nervous. He understood that this fact does not mean that he is guilty of anything. People often reacted like that on learning that he represented the mean law machine.

  “Yes, apparently we are,” Alfred shook his hand. “I need to ask you some questions. It won’t take too long.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Brannon returned to his maroon leather chair. “I am at your service.”

  Agent Hope sat in front of him. The men were separated by a small, light brown lacquered desk, on which beige paper dossiers on the actors lay casually. The guest looked around at some of the photographs that had fallen from them, hoping to notice children in the pictures.

  “Simon O’Neal told me about you. He brought his son Michael to you two and a half years ago.”

  “Simon O’Neal, Simon O’Neal...” Mr. Brannon repeated over and over, swaying in his chair. “No, I don’t remember. I have so many people who bring their children to me. For the time I am in this business, I’ve met thousands of people.”

  Agent Hope took his telephone from the pocket in his pants. Finding a photograph of the black boy in it, he laid the smartphone in front of Mr. Brannon, pushing it with his fingertips closer to the casting agent.

  “This is Michael O’Neal. He was abducted two years ago. He attended North West Central School.”

  “Oh yes, five kidnapped school children,” suddenly the man became anxious.

  Taking the smartphone with two fingers, he carefully looked at the picture.

  “Six months before the abduction, his father brought the boy to you for a casting for advertising pajamas.”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Brannon scratched his gray head. “Now I recall. A huge, black guy brought him to me. He was a friend of my buddy. So, you say, this boy is kidnapped?” he handed the phone back.

  “That’s what I’ve said.”

  “A terrible, terrible tragedy for all of Indianapolis,” the mature man resented.

  Alfred stared at him with restrained suspicion, seeing that he was not sincere. Intentionally overexpressing emotions, he apparently tried to please the agent or to make a fool of him.

  “Is the name Emmy Stevens familiar to you?”

  Damien Brannon thought again with utmost concern.

  “No,” he said confidently. “Not enough to be remembered and tell something specific. I’ve heard hundreds of names, and even if that name was heard, I can’t recall any specific person.

  “Emmy Stevens, a girl of nine. She studied at the same school with Michael and she was among those who were kidnapped.”

  “This is terrible,” the mature man whispered.

  “The fact is little Emmy also participated in a casting shortly before the abduction. Not yours, but still.”

  The door to the office opened. A frightened secretary came inside. She had two cups of coffee on a plastic tray. Placing them on the table, hearing a tense silence, she immediately left.

  “So?” Mr. Brannon did not understand what the guest was driving at. “Do you think these castings have something to do with the abduction?”

  “Yes, I do think so,” Alfred answered confidently, taking the snow-white saucer and his cup.

  “But how?” Damien asked.

  “Excellent coffee,” Alfred took two quick sips.

  Putting the cup and the saucer back in place, he wiped his mouth childishly with his palm.

  “Excuse me,” he smiled. “The fact is the abductor was probably not from Indianapolis or even from Indiana. Everything indicates a meticulously prepared crime. He needed people who would help in selecting five very good-looking children. Also, from one school. He might have selected them with the help of such castings for more than a year, accumulating information. As soon as all the stars aligned, he resolved on a crime,” Alfred smiled indifferently and maliciously. Here in Indianapolis, he still had his criminal associates, so I'm looking for them.”

  Frowning, Damien Brannon, slowly, laid his hands, clothed in white sleeves with sparkling cufflinks, on his desk.

  “Are you hinting at someone now?”

  Continuing to smile, Alfred shrugged.

  Mr. Brannon, with a face full of despair, shook his head.

  “This is terrible,” the mature man whispered. “I am an average agent, the same as many others in this country. Regardless of the tasks of our castings, parents bring their children, excuse me if it sounds offensive to you, but they bring the children in crowds,” saying that, the mature man showed less despair but more anger and denial of the role in which Alfred wanted to present him. “They put make-up on them, dress them in disgustingly vulgar clothes. They tell them to do everything possible just to please us. 13-15 years old girls flirt with me, making broad hints.”

  Listening to him, Alfred agreed with everything and nodded his head, taking small sips of his strong coffee.

  “Believe my experience, parents who are obsessed with the possibility that their child could become a ‘celebrity’,” Mr. Brannon continued, “they are the real criminals. I do not argue, in our industry, there is a huge number of perverts who love little boys, I know it, but that doesn’t give you the right, Agent Hope, to come to my office with your dirty, disgusting hints. Look at these photos,” the man proudly proclaimed, pointing to the portraits hanging on the wall behind him. “All these people, the first-magnitude stars, they know who Damien Brannon is, they know that Damien Brannon can be trusted, and he will never deceive. Moreover, he will not stoop so low as to work to with child abductors.”

  Alfred glanced at the wall of honor, on which black-and-white photographs were. Those pictures captured second-rate artists, the “B” category. And there were only a couple of them. The only thing that the office owner could boast of was his joint portraits with numerous cameramen and photographers, whose names were known only to him alone. To make the wall seem completed, many subjects repea
ted on different backgrounds.

  “Tell me, is there any kind of connection between the casting agents? Is there a kind of special social network or maybe a common database?”

  “The specific of our business is that we are in constant contact. This is what we do. When things go bad, we just sell our data to each other.”

  “Are you selling yours too?” Alfred became interested.

  “Yes, there’s nothing you could do about it. The percentage of star trading is very small. It’s not too often you get lucky to find a real talent in the crowd of sameness, and you need to survive somehow.”

  “May I?” Agent Hope asked, reaching for one of the folders on the table.

  “Of course,” Mr. Brannon said indifferently, handing it over.

  Alfred opened a thin folder in which there were several photos and personal data of a young girl. Leafing through large color shots, he smiled. A dark sun-tanned Latina tried to look defiant and super sexy. Apparently, the only thing she was counting on was acting in porn.

  “Who can buy such profiles?”

  “Anyone. Usually the same agents, but if an anonymous buyer appears on the site, none of us asks questions.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Of course, it’s legal.” Mr. Brannon responded indignantly. “All the parents, when it comes to children before the photo shoot begins or data is collected on a child, they sign an agreement where they confirm that the rights to the taken pictures belong to us and that we can transfer them to third parties. There is nothing illegal we do.”

  “Do you keep the data on who bought a profile from you and when?”

  “I do not have them. My secretary will help you out. I think if you search well, you will definitely find emails.”

  Alfred thought for a moment.

  “Before I leave, I want to ask you another question.”

  “Sure,” the man said wearily.

  “Parents of Emmy Stevens told me that they took their daughter to a casting. It was organized by a man who seemed to be a serious bigwig from Hollywood. And they said in the end he turned out to be a swindler. Would you suggest that it is still possible for me now, after three years, to find him?”