WEBCAM (6 page)

Shy1: I thought everyone lived like I did. That everyone had a dad like that. That everyone saw things.

Allec2: what kind of things did you see?

Shy1: well, sometimes, when things got really awful, I would go places.

Allec2: in your head?

Shy1: yes! I had an imaginary friend I talked to. But I thought he was real. I could see him. Or I thought I could see him. But he helped me when it got bad.

Allec2: are you sure he wasn’t real?

Shy1: he couldn’t have been real.

Allec2: so you were just talking to yourself?

Shy1: I guess.

Allec2: could you be chatting with yourself right now? Maybe I’m not even here.

Kendal blinked. This was getting meta.

Shy1: so I’m typing both my responses, and yours?

Allec2: are you looking at the keyboard when you type? Or at the screen?

Shy1: the screen.

Allec2: so your fingers might be typing my response right now, and you don’t even realize it.

Kendal kept one eye on her fingers, the other on the screen. Allec2 didn’t respond. When she turned her full attention back to the monitor, he replied with:

Maybe you should start taking your meds again.

Shy1: I gotta go.

Allec2: you look a little freaked out right now.

Kendal looked around her room, at all the webcams. Of course Allec2 was watching her. He paid a monthly subscription for the privilege.

Shy1: it’s been a tough day. I’m tired.

Allec2: school?

Shy1: yeah.

Allec2: calculus sucks.

Kendal wondered how he knew she took calculus. He’d probably heard her mention it. Or seen her textbook.

Or Allec2 is really me, and I’m talking to myself. Maybe I’m having a schizophrenic break.

Allec2: tell me, Kendal, was your imaginary friend locked up in the basement and screamed like hell when your dad went down there?

Kendal hit the
block
key and pushed away from the computer, her heart halfway up her throat. Then she looked at her hands, fingers splayed out in front of her.

Holy shit, did I just write that?

He called me Kendal.

How did he know my name? He couldn’t know my name.

Locked up in the basement?

What the hell was going on?

I’m dizzy.

I want to lie down.

I want to lie down, in privacy.

Kendal switched off the webcams in her room. Her weekly paycheck would take a hit, but she didn’t want to be watched right then. When she was finished, she closed her door, climbed onto her bed, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.

CHAPTER 9

Erinyes’s eyes open.

The house is quiet. Still.

But not empty.

Erinyes checks the clock. Almost delivery time. The driver is never late.

Erinyes waits by the door, staring through the peep hole.

Watches the van pull up.

Watches the man drop off the packages.

Watches him take the envelope of cash under the welcome mat.

Watches him leave.

Erinyes unlocks the door and scoops up the brown boxes. They all have fake return addresses, paid for with stolen credit card numbers. Darknet purchases, sent to a PO Box in a false name, via a mail forwarding service, and dropped off by private courier.

No way to trace them. Too many layers of protection.

Erinyes spreads the boxes out on the dining room table. Picks up a utility knife.

It’s Christmas time.

Santa brought Erinyes some goodies.

Spironolactone.

More vantablack make-up.

Cyproterone acetate.

Eratigena agrestis eggs.

Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid.

A master key set for Sargent locks.

Clindamycin.

A new cat o’nine tails.

Erinyes inspects the whip. The previous one had broken after repeated use. This one seems to be higher quality. The nine lashes are supple cowhide. The handle is wrapped steel, giving the weapon greater weight. Each tail ends in a sharp metal barb. So sharp Erinyes draws blood on a fingertip after touching it.

This isn’t a cheap S/M toy to flog your spouse while playing Fifty Shades of Grey in the bedroom. This is the real thing, meant to administer severe corporal punishment.

Penance. Penance long overdue.

Erinyes unlocks the basement door and walks downstairs.

“The Eratigena have arrived,” Erinyes says to the darkness. “Soon you’ll have your crown.”

Whimpers, and a tinkling of chains being dragged across the cement floor.

“UPS also delivered a new whip.”

A moan.

“You shall atone for your sins with spilled blood. The punishment will cleanse your soul.”

“Please… don’t.” The voice is meek. Feeble.

“Don’t you want your sins forgiven?”

No reply. Erinyes hits the cell phone record button.

“Do you think you have suffered enough for your crimes?”

“Mercy. Please.”

“Erinyes does not know mercy. Only punishment.”

Erinyes raises the whip.

“Don’t hurt me anymore.”

“It is your sins that have hurt you. I am here to give Penance.”

Erinyes begins.

The Penance is very loud. And very bloody.

CHAPTER 10

“I cut open dead bodies for a living, and this one made my stomach turn.”

Tom was using Facetime on his cell phone with Dr. Phil Blasky, who was in session at Cook County Morgue. Blasky hovered over the corpse of Kendal Hefferton, his voice booming through the refrigerated room, bouncing off concrete and stainless steel.

“Look at this,” Blasky switched to the rear camera. Tom didn’t like it when Blasky did that, and he winced at the sight of the victim.

“These wounds here in the vagina and anus all have increased histamine levels, indicating the injuries were pre-mortem.”

“She was alive,” Tom interpreted.

“Alive and struggling. Lots of defensive cuts.”

“Did the killer leave any trace?”

“Not a goddamn thing. I’ve been over every square inch of her with an alternate light source, swabbed every part of her I could think of, and the perp didn’t shed so much as an eyelash.”

That wasn’t good. While DNA rarely led to suspects, it often led to convictions. Tom had been hoping the killer left something behind.

“The tape used to bind her?” Tom asked.

“Standard duct tape”

“Prints?”

“Oval spots where he touched the adhesive, but no prints. He wore gloves.”

“Any evidence of rape?”

“Other than with the butcher knife? None I could find. No skin under her nails. If she fought back, she didn’t scratch him.”

“We think he might have tried to drink her blood.”

“Then he did it clean. No saliva I could find.”

Tom thought of something awful, and winced when he spoke. “Could he have maybe used a straw?”

“You mean poked into a vein and drank her like a juice box?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s something wrong with you that you think of stuff like that. But if the killer did it, I can’t find the entry point.”

Tom sighed. “So what can you tell me?”

“Her molars are loose, but no bruises on her face or cheeks.” Blasky stuck a gloved hand in the victim’s mouth and wiggled a tooth. “It’s a guess, but I think she was gagged and bit down hard on it.”

“Ball gag?”

“More like a bit.”

“Like for horses?”

“That’s what I’d bet on. Wedged into the back of the mouth, buckled around the head. Common bondage item. So I’ve heard.”

“Tox screen?”

“Waiting on results. Lab takes forever, you know that. But I have a theory how he tied her up.”

“Could it be consensual? A cam model decides to make extra money as a call girl, the client is into bondage.”

Blasky switched the camera back to himself, and he made a face. “Would you let some guy you didn’t trust tie you up?”

“There was no evidence of B&E. She might have let him in.”

“Or she might have been knocked out.” He turned the phone around. “See the small mark above her nose, and one under her chin?

“Yeah.”

“I’m a sucker for antique medical equipment. Did you know I have over a hundred pre-1950 reflex hammers? It’s crazy the shit you can find on eBay. Those burns, to me, look like they’d line up with a chloroform mask.”

Tom thought back to old black and white movies, an assailant sneaking up on a woman with a chloroformed rag to knock her out.

“Can you still buy chloroform?”

“You can buy anything. A hundred reflex hammers, remember? Chloroform masks were made of wire or mesh. They fit over the mouth and nose, and held a rag in place. You find the mask, I can match it to her injuries. Just as good as DNA evidence.”

Blasky then began to talk about his 1923 tonsil guillotine, and Tom was spared the details because he had another call.

“Gotta take this, Phil. Call if you find anything.” Tom switched over. “Hi, babe,” he said to Joan. “What’s up?”

“I’m checking to see if we’re still on for dinner.”

“Of course we’re on for dinner. Nothing could keep me from dinner with you. Are you still with Trish?”

“Yes. We ate at Uno’s.”

That’s what Tom had planned on for dinner, but he supposed he could figure out an alternative. “How was it?”

“They didn’t have goat cheese.”

“Of course they didn’t have goat cheese. This is Chicago, not Rodeo Drive.”

“Don’t get snotty with me. You’re the one who stood me up.”

“I wasn’t getting snotty, hon, I—”

“Are you still at work?”

“Yes. Not for long, though. Want to maybe check out the Art Institute? There’s an O’Keefe exhibit.”

Tom’s other line beeped. He ignored it.

“Are you going to answer that?” Joan asked.

Tom checked the number. It was the crime lab.

“I can call them back.”

“I hear your tone. It’s important.”

“You’re the one who is important, babe.”

The beeping continued. Tom wondered why the hell his voicemail didn’t pick up.

“The Art Institute sounds nice,” Joan finally said.

“Want to meet there in an hour?”

“Sure. That way, when you don’t show up, at least I’ll have something to do.”

“I’m going to show up, Joan. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“Uh-huh.”

She didn’t sound convinced. Tom’s phone finally stopped beeping.

“I have.”

“Okay, fair enough. But why does it have to be you’re at work, thinking of me, or you’re with me, thinking of work?”

“We promised we’d never make our jobs a thing between us,” Tom said. “That’s why you still live in LA and I still live in Chicago. They’re part of who we are, and we decided not to ask each other to change.”

“What if we did?”

“Huh?”

“What if I asked you to give up your job for me, Tom? Would you do it?”

“Are you asking?”

“Do you want me to ask? Or do you want to ask me?”

“We said we wouldn’t ask. I know your work is important.”

“But movie deals aren’t as important as catching killers, right?”

“I didn’t say that,” Tom said.

“You don’t need to. I get a call in the morning, I have to talk a director off a ledge so he doesn’t derail a two hundred mil blockbuster. You get a call, someone died. So obviously, you think your job is more important.”

Tom’s other line beeped again. Same number.

“You should answer it,” Joan said. “Someone else might be dead.”

“Can we continue this discussion at the museum?”

“A coward is much more exposed to quarrels than a man of spirit.”

“What is that? Is that a Jefferson quote? Did you just quote Jefferson to me?”

“Text me when you cancel,” Joan said, then hung up.

Tom wanted to be irritated, but he didn’t want to miss the call again, so he shelved his frustration and picked up.

“Mankowski.”

“Detective, are you in your office? I can come up.”

“Who is this?”

“Firoz.”

“Excuse me?”

“Detective Firoz Nafisi?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m the CPD computer guy. I did forensics on Kendal Hefferton’s laptop. You’re lead on the case?”

“Me and Roy Lewis.”

“Can I come up?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Be right there.”

Tom opened up the folder containing his crime scene report of the first victim. He let himself drift back to it. The sight of her, tied to the bed, mutilated almost beyond recognition. The smell. The bloody writing on the wall. Tom was no stranger to violence. He’d seen it. He’d been the recipient of it. But this was a whole new level of psychotic. There was careful planning here. The perp had gained access to the apartment, brought along his torture tools, tape, gag, chloroform and mask. But there was so much raw rage, so much savagery, in the murder, that it looked like the work of someone severely unhinged.

“Detective?”

Tom was startled by someone speaking so near to him. He looked up.

“I’m Firoz.”

The man who extended a hand looked familiar, and Tom hid his surprise.

He looked a lot like Maddoksim Chmerkolinivskiy, which meant he looked like the suspect Tanya Bestrafen had described leaving the second victim’s apartment.

CHAPTER 11

The man bleeds.

The man hurts.

The man pulls at the chains.

The man knows there is no escape.

The man thinks about monsters.

The man knows they are real.

The man cries.

The man cries for himself.

The man cries for the world.

The man knows there is no forgiveness.

For anyone.