Angel Killer (8 page)

I turn to look at the head of behavioral sciences, but he’s looking at me. Everyone is facing my direction. All the FBI chiefs in the room are waiting.

Ailes leans in and whispers to me, “You’re on.”

Me?

M
Y FIRST STEP
onstage was by accident. I was three years old and my grandfather was performing a series of shows in London’s West End. My mother had run off a year before, leaving me in the care of my unprepared father and my equally unskilled grandfather—his solution was to use dancers in the troupe as nannies. I had more “aunts” and “uncles” than I can remember. I was watching from the wings as usual. I used to sit in the lap of the dancers before they would go on, and this time my designated sitter was filling in for a girl getting ready on the other side of the stage, so I was left unattended.

Grandfather was performing the Mischief Rabbit, a trick invented by his father. He’d pretend to attempt to make a rabbit appear out of a silk top hat, only to fail. Each time he turned to the audience with an exasperated look, the rabbit would poke his head out of the top of the hat.

The trick was accomplished by a pneumatic lift built into the table. Each time Grandfather stepped away, a stagehand would push a button and raise the rabbit on its little rabbit elevator, bringing him into view.

I loved the trick. The rabbit delighted me. I used to feed him carrots and look after him and his six brothers like they were my own pets. When Grandfather performed the trick, I paid no mind to the machinery and thought it was really the rabbit poking his head out of the hat, giving Grandfather a hard time.

On this occasion, with no one there to mind me, I ran onto the stage and pulled the rabbit from the hat when my grandfather looked away. The audience screamed in delight. When Grandfather turned around, the rabbit was gone and so was I. He didn’t realize I’d stolen the rabbit and continued on with the routine, baffled as to why he didn’t get the laughs in the right places.

At the end of the effect, when it was time to produce the rabbit, he reached into the hat and his face turned red. The rabbit was gone. Suddenly he knew why everything was off. Then he saw me in the wings cuddling his finale.

I’d seen his enough of his temper to be frightened. Rather than run away, I joined him onstage, handed him the rabbit, and said in my high-pitched voice, “Don’t be angry, Grandpa! You can pet him too!”

The audience roared. Grandfather’s scowl melted. He knew a good bit when he saw it. I was in the act from then on.

Until he taught me the trick with the red sponge balls two years later, he’d never thought of teaching me to be more than a prop. I was used onstage but never as a magician until I took the initiative.

Since then, I’ve been on national television and performed for tens of thousands of people in outdoor arenas in Asia. But none of that has prepared me for this. I look at Ailes, not sure what I’m supposed to do. He taps his pen to my folder with its single page of notes.

I decide to just start talking and let my brain catch up. Just stick to what I know and not go into some bullshit theory about how I think the Warlock sees things—a mistake I’ve seen a lot of green analysts make.

I take a breath. “What we saw was a trick. I mean that in the strictest sense of the word. This is a magic trick designed to fool us and keep us fooled.”

Ailes and Knoll are waiting for me to continue. “A trick assumes a trickster—a magician. There are two kinds of magicians: the type that acknowledges to the audience that what he’s doing is a trick, and the kind that uses deception to pretend he’s the real thing—like a psychic or a spoon bender. The first one just wants your attention. The second type wants to continue to deceive you. He wants you to believe in him.”

Knoll raises a pen. “Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Dr. Chisholm or behavioral analysis would have to answer that. I can only tell you about the kind of magicians I’m aware of.” I point to the screen and the girl’s hellish scream. “This man is the second type. He doesn’t want us to know how he did his trick. He wants us to believe in him. He wants us to believe he’s real. He’s not just trying to prove how clever he is. He doesn’t just want our attention. He wants us to think this is a miracle. Maybe he knows that a room full of people like us won’t be fooled into believing that a man can raise the dead, but he knows some of the public will be. A dead girl crawling out of the ground who spontaneously erupts in flames? That’s a powerful idea.” I think of what Gladys told me. “No matter how much science and logic we have on our side, if there’s any room for doubt because we can’t figure it out, he’ll consider a win. It’s about the spectacle.”

The blond woman raises her hand. “How do you think he wanted the illusion to play out?”

Illusion. I guess that’s the right word for this. Usually an illusion is much more benign. It only looks deadly . . .

I think for a moment. “If it was me and I wanted to convince you I was some kind of necromancer, I mean a real magician, I’d try to destroy the evidence that could contradict that, just like he did. Maybe I’d rig the body to combust when it was pulled out of the ground. Or perhaps I’d plant some kind of pressure sensor so it would burst into flames once it was in a confined space like a morgue truck. Maybe I’d try to make the combustion even more significant by having it burst into flames when the sun came up.”

The last observation gets several raised eyebrows. I realize I’m overstepping. “I’m just speculating. He’s obviously obsessed with the occult. It’s a theme for him.”

Knoll interrupts me with a question. “Do you think this person is a trained magician?”

I’ve been thinking about that a lot since last night. I don’t have a specific answer. “I don’t know. I’d say not. Magic techniques are available to just about anyone who wants to find them. Most magicians aren’t creators. And to be honest, magical thinkers, I mean people who invent tricks, are extremely rare. They usually find work elsewhere, in Hollywood, designing games and other stuff.” I leave out joining the FBI. “His method here is nothing like what would be used for a traditional buried-alive illusion. Superficially similar, but it ends there. He’s just very, very clever.”

I pause for any further questions. None. I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone turns their attention back to Knoll.

The long burn is in the back of my mind. “There’s one other thing.”

Knoll sits back down and raises his eyebrows. I’m afraid I’m pushing, but it has to be said.

“If he’s thought this through, he doesn’t want us to solve it. That means he’ll do things to lead us down blind alleys. He’ll distract us. He’ll make us reach for the wrong conclusion.”

“How do you mean?” asks Knoll.

I remember an illusion I used to do for reporters and reach out to the conference table to pick up a set of keys from Knoll. I pass them from one hand to the other with my fists closed. “Which hand are they in?”

Knoll points to my right. I open the hand and show that it’s empty.

“I think this is more than sleight of hand tricks, Agent,” sneers the blonde.

“You’re right,” I reply. I open my left hand. I’m holding Knoll’s BlackBerry. There’s silence followed by a few stifled laughs.

“Well shit,” shrieks Danielle. “That girl just burned a room full of us FBI folks.” She gives me an approving look.

“My point is that smart people are smart because we are generally very good at knowing where to focus. Which means we’re sometimes the easiest ones to fool.” I look around the room. “Me too.”

Ailes speaks up. “Jessica, do you think this is the last we’ve seen of the Warlock?”

I glance at Dr. Chisholm. “I think your division and the people at behavioral analysis would have a better answer than me.”

Chisholm gives me a smile. “We have our thoughts. But I’d like to hear yours.”

I’m still in the spotlight. The room is looking at me, expecting me to pull off another stunt. I’m not an expert on behavior and hate to be put on the spot for something outside my expertise. I go with my gut. “No. This isn’t the last. He’s just getting started. This is how a magician gets your attention. The website defacement was the poster calling us to the show. The Chloe murder is his opening effect, something quick, to the point, which tells us to take him seriously. Now he’s going to follow through with something else. Something bigger. You saw the news today. This is only the start.”

Chisholm nods his head. He knows this too. “Why do you say that, Agent Blackwood?”

“Because he’s that second kind of magician. The dark kind. He doesn’t want us to show that he’s a fake. He’s the kind of magician that thinks he’s special, that despite the trickery there’s something about him that is magical. Jim Jones used to do mentalism and hypnosis. That’s how he got nine hundred people to follow him down to the middle of nowhere. Their kind only get stopped one of two ways. They either get exposed or they die.”

“Either way is fine by us,” replies Knoll.

I shake my head. “I don’t think you understand. The ones that die without being exposed have religions built around them. I can name a handful of religions that really took off when their founder died. In a sense, they became immortal by dying. That’s what the Warlock wants, what every dark magician is after, to be thought of as a god. And gods don’t care how many people they kill.” I shut up and sit back in my chair.

Chisholm follows up my comments with some analysis about the Warlock being obsessed with the occult and the suggestion that Chloe and her double were meant as a kind of sacrifice to demonstrate his powers. People keep glancing my way, expecting me to say something or add on to what he’s saying.

I focus on Chisholm as he recommends looking for possible connections between the victims and the Warlock through occult online groups and related subcultures.

As the meeting is about to wrap up, a young agent barges through the door and whispers something into Knoll’s ear and hands him a note.

Knoll tells us to stay in our seats. “They exhumed the coffin and found something else.” He checks the note again. “Sand. From initial inspection it doesn’t appear to be from the Michigan area. Apparently it’s still damp and smells like salt water.”

The blond agent raises her pen. “Wet sand in a coffin that was supposed to have been buried for two years? How is that possible?”

Everyone turns to me.

How the hell would I know?

T
WO DAYS LATER
, the assistant director of the FBI waits for me to perform a literal miracle in his office.

AFTER THAT MEETING
I returned to my job in the cubicle hunting down fugitive decimal points. But I’d been active in the online working group for the Warlock case, following its development. The forensic lab sent samples of the sand over to the Navy and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution for analysis and I was asked again to offer my explanation as to how fresh sand got into the coffin.

I tried describing to Ailes that there could be any number of ways. Without more evidence, I wouldn’t be able to say exactly how.

He’d shake his head, “Agent Blackwood, we’re not asking how exactly he did it. We just want to know that it could be done. Could you do it?”

“Of course,” I replied. It seemed to me like the backwards version of the buried-alive stunt. Instead of getting a living person out of the ground, you were putting something in the grave after the fact.

“Could you do a demonstration?”

He must have seen my face go white at the thought of being buried alive in some field at Quantico. He clarified, “I mean, can you just show them you can get something inside a sealed box under difficult conditions? I just want them to keep their minds open.”

“A small demonstration?”

“Yes. Just a proof of concept.”

“Okay.” I told him my idea. He gave me a grin and asked if I’d do a demonstration for the assistant director as well as Knoll and Chisholm. I resisted the idea, but he was relentless.

“You need to show these people, Jessica.”

“I think they’ll get the idea if I just tell them.”

He shook his head. “I mean, you need to show them what you’re capable of.”

“It’s just a trick,” I insisted.

“So is the Warlock’s stunt. We need to be reminded of that.”

I gave in. I knew he wouldn’t stop. I don’t want to be the performing magic girl. I just want to be a good cop.

THE WOODEN CHEST
I asked Ailes to bring to Assistant Director Breyer’s office the day before is sitting in the middle of his desk. Breyer pokes a finger at it and gives me a smile. “I had them lock this in a safe overnight. So what gives?”

I check my watch. “You’re an Orioles fan, right? What’s the score?”

He clicks open a screen on his computer to check. “They just finished. Ouch . . . Sox beat them by two.”

“You have the envelope I asked Dr. Ailes to give you?” I’m standing while everyone else sits, looking at me like it’s a goddamn magic show. I guess it is.

Breyer pulls the envelope from his desk and hands it to me. I check the seal and open it up. There’s a key inside. I put the key into the lock on the chest and give it a turn. It makes a click. I step back and motion for Breyer to open the chest.

He gives everyone a look, then lifts the lid and peers inside. He takes out the envelope inside the chest and holds it up. “Am I supposed to open this?”

“Please.”

Breyer takes a letter opener from his desk and slits the top open. There’s a smirk on his face.

His smug expression vanishes when he looks inside. “Holy crap!” He pulls out his business card. Written on the back is the final score for the game. Breyer presses his intercom button, still holding the card. “Jill, did anyone get into the safe?”

“I hope not . . .” she replies from the next room.

Breyer shakes his head at me. “All right, witch. Explain.”

It’s an old method. Nobody uses it anymore. Not that I would feel any guilt explaining it to a room filled with FBI agents trying to solve a murder.

“Look at your business card.”