CHAPTER 61
It all went down. The best-laid plans of mice and men. The MEs, accompanied by a substantial police escort, brought Mr. Oliver Grayson’s body to a cordoned-off section of woodlands near the Boston Police VFW Post in Dorchester. I guess I could have killed somebody there in the predawn dark. A press release went out to the news media shortly thereafter, around 4:30 that morning, six hours before the deadline. “The police have found a body in Dorchester,” the alert read, “another apparent victim of the SHS Killer.” News media descended on the scene the way vultures are drawn to carrion.
Yellow crime-scene tape held the press at bay, though reporters did everything possible to gather information. They pushed and shoved and shouted out questions. “Who is the victim?” “Male or female? Age?” “Any connection to the other victims?” “How did he die?” “Can we see the body?” Police detectives assigned by Higgins to manage the media gave vague answers to the firestorm of questions.
I stood in the background, watching as the events unfolded. Everyone, it seemed, acted with authentic urgency. It looked like controlled chaos. I wasn’t in the briefing room when Higgins and the FBI did all the planning, but if Academy Awards were given out for the most realistic faked murder scene, I’m sure this would have won.
The discovery of a body in Dorchester, and its possible link to the serial killer terrorizing Boston, dominated the morning news and topped headlines on both local and national media outlets. Everyone, Special Agent Brenner included, believed the Fiend would contact me via my cell. He’d done it before. He’d do it again. So I was kept under close supervision. The FBI set up a tech center that could triangulate a cell signal if he did make contact.
An hour passed. And then another. Four hours to go, and still no word.
The tightness in my throat matched that of my stomach. Not a second went by when I wasn’t thinking of Ruby. I wanted to hold her, to feel her touch, feel her body pressed up against mine. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being cursed. King Midas in reverse. Everything I touched turned to poison.
I said my mantra over and over again. And no matter what it takes, or how far I have to go, I’m not going to let her die.
“It’s like fishing,” Detective Gant said to me, depositing a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of me. “Bait the hook, cast a line, and wait for a bite.”
I ignored Gant’s tasteless analogy by watching the video of Oliver Grayson’s dead body. We took the recording using my iPhone’s camera just after sunrise. Morning dew collected around the head in a crown of beaded water. The sky ignited with streams of pinks and yellows, all the markers of a beautiful day. We wanted the video on my phone in case I had to send it to the Fiend. The illusion had to be complete and perfect. I killed Oliver Grayson. I took a video of the body as the sun poked out over the horizon.
Afterward, the MEs bagged up Grayson—again—and Clegg left to escort them to a funeral home where the body would be cremated. Wailing sirens added authenticity to the departure. I stayed behind, camped out in a conference room at the VFW headquarters, along with a host of other law enforcement types, playing the waiting game.
I watched the video several times. Grayson looked to me like the other victims of the SHS Killer. Poor Oliver had two fingers set on the eyes, two on his waxy lips, and fingers protruding from each bulbous ear. The added blood was ketchup, but on video I couldn’t tell the difference. I didn’t see a cadaver. I saw a dead body, a murder victim. What I saw was my obligation fulfilled.
Three hours to go. Still no word.
A song popped into my head. The waiting is the hardest part. Tom Petty. Hadn’t I sung that to Ruby in Dr. Anna Lee’s office? Hadn’t that won me a point in our never-ending game? How prophetic a tune, how true it was.
And then it happened. My phone rang. My first thought was that Gant was right: it was like fishing. I did feel that jolt of adrenaline when a slack line suddenly goes taut. Everybody in the room—Higgins, Gant, Kaminski, Brenner, Agents Bob, Brewer—all tensed as well. I could see it on their faces. They felt the pull on the line, too.
“Shut up! Everybody shut up!” somebody screamed. “Everybody shut the hell up!”
Silence descended like a curtain. Voices went from a murmur to complete quiet in a few breaths. My phone rang again, sounding out the haunting chime of marimbas. I heard Brenner whisper, “Make sure our equipment is a go.” Burner phone or not, I knew that by triangulating the nearest cell phone transmission masts, coupled with cooperation from my cell provider and a lot of sophisticated equipment, they could pinpoint at least a general location of the Fiend.
I answered the call. “This is John.”
“Of course it is,” the Fiend said, his rasp on full display. “How are you, John? How are you feeling? Congratulations. Looks like you’re in the big leagues now.”
My teeth clenched.
“Where is Ruby?” I said.
“Easy, tiger,” said the Fiend. “I still need my proof. I was disappointed the news didn’t showcase my copycat’s handiwork.”
Brenner came over to me, gesturing excitedly for me to keep him talking.
“I have your proof,” I said. “I took video of the body.”
“Good boy. Tell me something. Are you trying to trace this call?”
“Of course not,” I said, hoping the jump of my pulse hadn’t betrayed the lie. “I just want you to release Ruby.”
“Don’t bother trying to trace this. You can’t find me, John.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re a bad liar,” he said. “I thought we worked on that before.”
“Dobson,” I said, remembering my first criminal task.
“Poor fellow,” said the Fiend.
Obviously, he was referring to Dobson.
“What does that mean?” I said, overcome with a sinking feeling.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
“What have you done?”
“Later. What I’d like right now is to see your effort,” he said. “E-mail a copy of the video to [email protected]. Don’t try to trace that, either. Just send the file.”
“Hang on,” I said.
I put the phone on mute.
“He wants me to e-mail him the video of Oliver,” I said to Higgins.
“Do it,” Higgins said.
Brenner said, “We can’t get a trace on this guy. His IP is bouncing all over the place. Are you experiencing any latency on the call?”
“No,” I said. “It’s coming through clear.”
“I don’t know how he’s doing it,” Brenner said, “but the call is definitely going through a proxy server that’s making it impossible to trace.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have better luck with the e-mail address,” I said.
Brenner’s haunted expression seemed to agree.
I e-mailed the video directly from my phone and heard someone talking. Maybe they thought the conversation was over. I turned off the mute button after Brenner had once again silenced the room.
“I sent the video,” I said.
“Good.” Then a pause. Then I heard, “Ohhhh . . . oh, John, lovely work. Was it hard?”
“Was what hard?”
“Taking a man’s life,” the Fiend said. “Did he struggle?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Were his legs kicking? Did he thrash about? He looks so old and frail. Could he put up much of a fight?”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t fight much at all.”
“So, you took out a weakling. Culled the herd, did you?”
“He lived a long time. It was the best of the worst. Now, you promised you’d set Ruby free.”
“Did he froth at the mouth? Did he spit on you as he died?”
I didn’t know how to respond. Did that happen to people who were choked to death? Could they even spit? Was he testing me? I decided he frothed but couldn’t spit. That’s what I told him, anyway.
“Jenna frothed at the mouth, too. Did it make you excited? Are you going to give Ruby a bit of that excitement when you’re reunited?”
“Please,” I said. “Please just let her go.”
“Okay . . . okay. Come and get her, John. She’s at one-fifty-seven Beacon Street in Boston, Apartment Seven-E.”
“You’re just going to let me come and get her?” I said, disbelieving.
“Yes. That was our deal. One murdered person in exchange for one sick wife.”
“I’m coming now.”
“Good. And bring friends if you’d like. I don’t care if an entire armada of police shows up. But I do have one rule. One very specific rule. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to attempt entry without first getting my permission. If anybody so much as rings the buzzer, she dies. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I said. “Understood.”
“And, John?”
“Yes?”
“You’re almost a real criminal.”
“What do you mean, almost? I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”
“Yes, you’ve done everything I’ve asked,” the Fiend said, “but I haven’t asked everything you’ll do.”