‘Go on.’ Salgado was grudging.
‘We spend five, ten minutes now trying to talk him out into the light. Chances are that will fail, but we should try. After that I suggest we send him a message every hour on the hour. Establish a routine, let him know when we’ll be here if and when he wants to talk. In between, I do my thing and squeeze this bird like it’s a lemon.’
O’Neill and Salgado looked at each other over the tech’s head, both shrugging.
‘Okay, Kurt, it’s good,’ O’Neill told him. ‘Apart from the weird mixed metaphor about the bird and the lemon, that’s as good a plan as we’ve got for now. We need to work out a wording to use with him. Treat him like a jumper standing on a ledge. Lure him back inside.’
‘So that we can kill him,’ Salgado added.
‘Yeah, just don’t tell him that. So, what do we say?’
‘We’ve already missed something that we should have said,’ Geisler told them. ‘There was clearly some kind of codeword that this guy expected, and we didn’t deliver. He knew immediately that it wasn’t Garland on the other end of the chat. There’s no point in trying to pretend otherwise. I say we tell him we just want to talk and reassure him it’s safe to do so.’
‘We tell him that we’re cops?’
‘Not until we have to. I’d go for honest up to the point of stupid.’
‘You could be describing Salgado.’ O’Neill grinned. ‘Okay, let’s do it. Message this creep then we go to the hourly plan.’
We should talk. You’ve nothing to lose by having the conversation.
It wasn’t going to win a Pulitzer, but it did the job. Short, to the point, open-ended, non-threatening. They alter- nated it with variations of, Are you there? I just want to talk.
As they’d discussed, Geisler and Salgado tried it for ten minutes, but they could see that the messages hadn’t been read, never mind responded to. They signed off with, I’m here if you change your mind. Will be here on the hour, every hour.
*
The room seemed colder and brighter in the cool of the evening when Geisler called Salgado back. The tech’s last message – Let’s talk, Matthew – was front and centre on the computer screen. Timed at 7 p.m. precisely. Below it, a single word and time notified that it had been viewed almost immediately. Read 19.01.
Salgado drew breath and tried to make sense of it.
‘Would he have had to click on your message for us to know he’d read it?’
‘Yes. The indicator initially reads as “delivered” until it’s clicked, then it changes to “read”.’
‘But he could have seen it without having to click on it?’
Geisler nodded. ‘As long as the chat box was open, yes. And the fact that it was viewed so quickly suggests it almost certainly was.’
‘So, he’s making a point. Letting us know he’s seen it. Letting us know he’s still there. Why?’
‘Not my area of expertise, Detective. But I’d say he might want to talk but he’s making you sweat for it.’
Salgado pulled out his cell and called. O’Neill answered immediately.
‘Why is this guy Marr talking to us when all he’s doing is putting himself at risk? Why is he taking the chance of communicating with us?’
‘He replied?’
‘No, but he read it. Let us know he did too.’
The line went quiet while she thought it through. ‘He wants something from us. Something only we, or Garland’s computer, can give him.’
He let it percolate. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s it. You’re a genius, O’Neill.’
Salgado ended the call and reached for the keyboard.
Who are you, motherfucker? Who should be dead and what the fuck do you want?
He stared at the line for a while, aware of Geisler standing anxiously over his left shoulder. His finger hovered above the enter button but didn’t press it. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not that stupid. Not quite. Anyway, even if he’s there, I want to make him wait. It’s twenty-five minutes till he expects us to message him again. Let’s wait till then.’
His poised finger switched to the delete button, strip- ping the line away a letter at a time. He hesitated when only the last three words were left, Who are you, then punched those too into oblivion.
They dragged their feet. Salgado looked from the key- board to the screen and back, playing out conversations and strategies in his head. It was all the more real now, knowing that Marr would be coming back.
The moment the clock reached the top of the hour, Salgado typed and sent.
I’m here, Matthew. Let’s talk.
His eyes were on the status. Delivered. He watched and waited, aware of his own nervousness, unsure if he was the cat or the mouse, still not sure what he’d type or do. Was the man even there . . . Yes, yes, he was. Delivered became Read and a surge of adrenalin made Salgado sit up and draw in breath.
He waited again, giving Marr the chance to reply. Two minutes and that still hadn’t happened. He typed again, giving up an element of his knowledge but sure that Marr already knew anyway.
I know you’re there, Matthew.
Read. No reply.
And I know you want to talk.
Read. No reply.
So what are you waiting for? Scared?
Read. No reply.
Maybe I got it wrong. I guess you don’t want to talk after all.
Read. Replied.
Okay. Let’s talk.
Salgado jumped. Hesitated. Answered.
Goodbye!
The gap was long and Salgado imagined the confusion. Marr typed again.
No. I said I’ll talk.
Read. No reply.
You’re playing games. Fuck you.
Read. No reply.
The tech looked at Salgado like he was crazy. And maybe he was.
It was a huge gamble and one he was going to find diffi- cult to justify or explain to his bosses if this blew up in his face and Marr never came back to him. Hell, he was going to have enough trouble explaining it to O’Neill.
Marr hadn’t messaged again after saying fuck you. It was enough to make Salgado worry. Had he overplayed the poor hand that he had? If he had managed to make his only point of contact so mad that he’d walked away, then he’d be out on his ass.
The countdown to the next hour crawled even slower than the previous one. He’d sent Geisler home, seeing no point in them both missing out on a night’s sleep. The empty office echoed to his thoughts and he had to get up and walk around the room, circling the chair, talking to himself.
‘Asshole. Asshole. Always got to take the risk.’
He walked and talked and watched the clock inch over towards nine.
‘Always sure you’re right. You had him and kicked him loose. You blew it.’
He wound himself up further by wandering around the perimeter of the room, then back to stand in front of the investigation board, staring at the photographs that were pinned to it. His mind drew lines from Garland’s photographs to the images of the body parts they’d found in the locked cabinet. He slammed the doors shut to hear the noise bounce off the walls. He saw nothing and the clock turned over like sludge.
Five minutes till nine and Salgado slid back into the chair, eyeballing the computer as if he might be able to jump-start it with the power of his mind. The machine stared back, refusing to bend.
When the clock showed one minute to go, he could feel his veins knot at the wrist, pulse quickening, but it was like it was all dressed up with nowhere to go. It showed nine. Nothing. Not immediately. But he hadn’t expected there to be, just hoped. Marr would be doing the same thing. Sitting, waiting, not wanting to be the one to go first, not sure if the other would go at all.
9.01.
9.02.
9.03 and it was Marr who folded first.
Okay, you made your point. Talk.
Salgado held his nerve for as long as he dared, wanting to puncture the other guy’s sense of certainty but not pre- pared to take another chance of
losing him.
I’m here. And I’m listening.
Where is Ethan? Is he dead?
Yes.
How did he die and who are you?
He had a heart attack.
I asked who you were. If he’d been murdered, then I’d think you were the person that killed him. If he did die of natural causes, then there’s one answer most likely as to who you are.
Salgado didn’t see any need or practical way to hide it.
I’m the police.
There was a considered pause, but not a long one.
Who am I speaking to?
Detective Bryan Salgado, LAPD. And who are you?
You can see the name on the screen. And I’m guessing LA cops can read.
So, you’re Matthew Marr?
Maybe. But it’s good to have it confirmed that that’s what you’re seeing. Ethan never knew my name. Who am I? Go fuck yourself, that’s who I am.
Salgado swore under his breath.
Let’s get real here, Matthew. Why don’t you me what it is you want?
They batted it back and forth for a few minutes, neither giving way, until Salgado heard the door open behind him. O’Neill and Geisler slipped through it, the cop pulling up a chair while the tech hovered behind.
‘He’s talking? Let me read what he’s said. Delay him till I catch up.’
‘Delay is easy. He’s dicking me around. I’m gonna push him.’
‘Be careful.’
Salgado linked his fingers as he thought, then released them to type.
Matthew, if there isn’t a reason for you to talk to me then maybe there isn’t a reason for me to talk to you. Get to it. Let me take a wild guess. It’s something to do with the man who should be dead. Am I right?
There was another, much longer, pause.
Right. And if we don’t talk then you don’t find him. You don’t find him, he dies.
Salgado swore loudly. O’Neill did it quietly.
‘And he’s still dicking you around,’ she told him. ‘Still not telling us what he wants. Trouble is, I think whatever he wants . . . I’m not sure I want to hear it.’
‘You think it’s something worse than this guy dying?’
‘Yeah. That’s what scares me.’
Salgado nodded soberly. ‘Well, let’s find out.’
Okay, Matthew. I believe you. But I need something to work with. Who’s going to die if we don’t talk?
Oh, he’s probably going to die even if we do talk. You see, I don’t know who he is or where he is. Only my friend Ethan knew those things. But if we don’t talk? It’s definite.
The man’s words caused the room to slip into silence. Both Salgado and O’Neill felt the walls close in on them as the air disappeared from the room.
Get to the point you piece of shit. What do you want?
That’s easy, you arse. I want to watch him die.
CHAPTER 11
Salgado had got out of the chair and kicked violently at it with the sole of his shoe, causing it to slide across the room until it hit the far wall.
‘What the hell is this, Cally?’ he shouted.
She was calmer. Angry and shocked, but in control. She stood at the desk, taking Salgado’s place and typing.
How can you watch him? You need to tell me more.
Seems I need to tell you everything, Detective.
This is why you came back to talk. Because there’s something in the hard drive in this computer that you need to let you see whatever it is you’ve orchestrated with Garland. Right?
Right. Gold star. Top of the class. A cop with half a brain. Whatever next?
So how do we do it, Matthew? How do we let you see whatever it is?
There is a mechanism hidden on the computer that it seems you haven’t found yet. It’s inside a couple of other things for security and it’s disguised as something else. You won’t find it unless you’re looking for it. I can tell you where it is, and you just have to flick the switch.
Salgado nodded at her. ‘So, we do it, right?’
O’Neill turned to Geisler, eyebrows raised in question.
‘This could be a bomb,’ he cautioned. ‘Not literally, but a self-destruct that could delete anything we might find in the computer.’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t know, and it’s up to you whether we take the chance.’
‘Shit.’
She typed. Okay, Matthew. Talk us through it.
The instructions might as well have been in Swahili for all that they made sense to either of the cops, but Geisler did as he was told and in moments, a small box popped up in the top right-hand corner of the screen. Its buttons were all self-explanatory. Power. Play. Stop. Share.
‘It’s a video feed. It’s controlled from this computer. We can give him access to view it, but we retain control. We can let him see it, but we can turn it off any time we want.’
‘And will he know that?’
‘I’d say probably, yes. But if not, you can demonstrate.’
Salgado smiled tightly. ‘That I like.’
Geisler typed.
Share will make it available to how many people?
Just me.
‘Is he telling the truth?’
‘I can’t be sure. Most probably yes, though.’
‘And this won’t fuck over the whole computer?’
‘No. Probably.’
‘Shit. Okay, do it.’
Geisler clicked ‘Power’ then ‘Play’. A box appeared that filled half the screen with an option to fill it all. As they watched anxiously, it wavered, buffered and came to life, a sharp black and white image forming in front of them. They struggled to take it all in at once.
The camera was pointed directly at a young man, sitting slumped and tied against a metal radiator. His jaw was slack, his mouth catching flies. One arm was hand-cuffed to the radiator, the other was free but lay still at his side. There were a few days of growth on his chin but that in itself told them little. There was little sign of life.
‘Oh Jesus . . .’
‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . . .’
Was he dead? Was it even live film or a photograph? The clock in the bottom corner ticked over in real time, suggesting the former, but the man was as still as any corpse. O’Neill looked to his chest in the vain hope of seeing it beat.
Just within reach was a glass. She had to look twice to see if there was water in the bottom of it. There wasn’t.
None of them said anything more. They just burned with anger at what they saw, at what they were being forced to watch. O’Neill saw Salgado’s fists bunch and the vein on his neck tighten.
Abruptly, the imprisoned man’s head moved, jerking from left to right then falling back into place. A tremor followed through his right leg as it kicked limply then fell still again. Either he was dreaming, or his body was rebelling against whatever agonies it was going through.
He was alive. Barely.
CHAPTER 12
‘We need a doctor to see this,’ O’Neill announced. ‘Someone that can give us an idea of his condition. We need a clock on him so we know how long we’ve got.’
They both searched the visuals of the room for clues. The radiator was old school, thick and heavy, suggesting an older property. The wall behind the radiator was papered in an odd design, a mottled background that could have been mosaic or leopard skin, overlaid with geometric shapes that formed what looked like hanging lanterns. The carpet was thick and brown, hiding all sorts of crumbs and bugs and secrets.
The man was maybe early twenties. Maybe late twenties. His hair was thick and dark but lay tousled and oily across his forehead, stuck by sweat or fever. He looked at first glance like a messy drunk, slumped eight beers down on a sidewalk. They’d both seen enough of those to know this was different though.
There was a wildness about his eyes when they briefly slipped open, unfocused but searching. His mouth jammering without words or energy. Once they’d looked long enough, they could see his stoma
ch contracting, convulsing, agonising. His body was reaching out, whether he was aware of it or not.
They’d both seen dead bodies and they’d both seen dying. This was the latter.
Salgado tapped Geisler on the shoulder and motioned him out of the seat. He slid into his place and typed.
This is what you wanted to see?
Yes.
Tell me why.
I don’t have to explain myself to you.
No? Oh I think you do.
Salgado nodded and Geisler leaned in past him and cut the video feed. Marr’s response was immediate and frenzied.
What the fuck have you done? Put that back on! Put it on now!
Salgado breathed. Waited.
You’re condemning him to death unless you put it back on.
No, you’re the one who’s doing that. You and your friend Garland. You want to see it that badly then you talk to me and you answer my questions.
A long delay then an answer.
Put it back up and I’ll talk to you.
And you’ll answer my questions?
I’ll answer some of them. I guess we’ll both have to work out how much I want to watch this. And you need to work out how much you want an answer to any question that might make me quit.
I guess we do.
Salgado looked to Geisler and jerked a thumb towards the video. The feed resumed.
But here’s my line, unless you’re here talking to us, every hour on the hour, this feed is turned off. And you should know, we’re coming after you. Hard.
Good luck with that. You don’t know who I am. You don’t know where I am. Neither did Ethan. I’ll talk to you. As long as it suits me. As long as he is alive. When he’s dead, I’m gone.
You’re a sick piece of shit.
We’re all different, Detective Salgado. Different wiring, that’s all. Maybe I’ll find out how you’re set up. That could be interesting.
Salgado slammed his hand against the keyboard, twice. He then banged it hard a third time before deleting the resultant letters one by one. O’Neill pretended not to notice, staring ahead at the screen and waiting for the sentence he’d actually send.
Watch Him Die Page 7
